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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Rousseau and Romanticism - - -Author: Irving Babbitt - - - -Release Date: October 16, 2015 [eBook #50235] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM*** - - -E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram and the Online Distributed Proofreading -Team (http://www.pgdp.net) - - - -ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM - -by - -IRVING BABBITT - -Professor of French Literature in Harvard University - - - - - - - -[Illustration] - -Boston and New York -Houghton Mifflin Company - -The Riverside Press Cambridge - - - - - _L’imagination dispose de tout._ - - PASCAL - - _Le bon sens est le maître de la vie humaine._ - - BOSSUET - - _L’homme est un être immense, en quelque sorte, qui peut - exister partiellement, mais dont l’existence est d’autant plus - délicieuse qu’elle est plus entière et plus pleine._ - - JOUBERT - - - - -CONTENTS - - - INTRODUCTION ix - - I. THE TERMS CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC 1 - - II. ROMANTIC GENIUS 32 - - III. ROMANTIC IMAGINATION 70 - - IV. ROMANTIC MORALITY: THE IDEAL 114 - - V. ROMANTIC MORALITY: THE REAL 187 - - VI. ROMANTIC LOVE 220 - - VII. ROMANTIC IRONY 240 - - VIII. ROMANTICISM AND NATURE 268 - - IX. ROMANTIC MELANCHOLY 306 - - X. THE PRESENT OUTLOOK 353 - - APPENDIX--CHINESE PRIMITIVISM 395 - - BIBLIOGRAPHY 399 - - INDEX 421 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -Many readers will no doubt be tempted to exclaim on seeing my title: -“Rousseau and no end!” The outpour of books on Rousseau had indeed in -the period immediately preceding the war become somewhat portentous.[1] -This preoccupation with Rousseau is after all easy to explain. It is -his somewhat formidable privilege to represent more fully than any -other one person a great international movement. To attack Rousseau or -to defend him is most often only a way of attacking or defending this -movement. - -It is from this point of view at all events that the present work is -conceived. I have not undertaken a systematic study of Rousseau’s life -and doctrines. The appearance of his name in my title is justified, -if at all, simply because he comes at a fairly early stage in the -international movement the rise and growth of which I am tracing, and -has on the whole supplied me with the most significant illustrations of -it. I have already put forth certain views regarding this movement in -three previous volumes.[2] Though each one of these volumes attempts to -do justice to a particular topic, it is at the same time intended to be -a link in a continuous argument. I hope that I may be allowed to speak -here with some frankness of the main trend of this argument both on its -negative and on its positive, or constructive, side. - -Perhaps the best key to both sides of my argument is found in the -lines of Emerson I have taken as epigraph for “Literature and the -American College”: - - There are two laws discrete - Not reconciled,-- - Law for man, and law for thing; - The last builds town and fleet, - But it runs wild, - And doth the man unking. - -On its negative side my argument is directed against this undue -emphasis on the “law for thing,” against the attempt to erect on -naturalistic foundations a complete philosophy of life. I define two -main forms of naturalism--on the one hand, utilitarian and scientific -and, on the other, emotional naturalism. The type of romanticism I am -studying is inseparably bound up with emotional naturalism. - -This type of romanticism encouraged by the naturalistic movement is -only one of three main types I distinguish and I am dealing for the -most part with only one aspect of it. But even when thus circumscribed -the subject can scarcely be said to lack importance; for if I am right -in my conviction as to the unsoundness of a Rousseauistic philosophy of -life, it follows that the total tendency of the Occident at present is -away from rather than towards civilization. - -On the positive side, my argument aims to reassert the “law for man,” -and its special discipline against the various forms of naturalistic -excess. At the very mention of the word discipline I shall be set down -in certain quarters as reactionary. But does it necessarily follow -from a plea for the human law that one is a reactionary or in general -a traditionalist? An American writer of distinction was once heard to -remark that he saw in the world to-day but two classes of persons,--the -mossbacks and the mountebanks, and that for his part he preferred to -be a mossback. One should think twice before thus consenting to seem a -mere relic of the past. The ineffable smartness of our young radicals -is due to the conviction that, whatever else they may be, they are the -very pink of modernity. Before sharing their conviction it might be -well to do a little preliminary defining of such terms as modern and -the modern spirit. It may then turn out that the true difficulty with -our young radicals is not that they are too modern but that they are -not modern enough. For, though the word modern is often and no doubt -inevitably used to describe the more recent or the most recent thing, -this is not its sole use. It is not in this sense alone that the word -is used by writers like Goethe and Sainte-Beuve and Renan and Arnold. -What all these writers mean by the modern spirit is the positive and -critical spirit, the spirit that refuses to take things on authority. -This is what Renan means, for example, when he calls Petrarch the -“founder of the modern spirit in literature,” or Arnold when he -explains why the Greeks of the great period seem more modern to us than -the men of the Middle Ages.[3] - -Now what I have myself tried to do is to be thoroughly modern in this -sense. I hold that one should not only welcome the efforts of the -man of science at his best to put the natural law on a positive and -critical basis, but that one should strive to emulate him in one’s -dealings with the human law; and so become a complete positivist. My -main objection to the movement I am studying is that it has failed to -produce complete positivists. Instead of facing honestly the emergency -created by its break with the past the leaders of this movement have -inclined to deny the duality of human nature, and then sought to -dissimulate this mutilation of man under a mass of intellectual and -emotional sophistry. The proper procedure in refuting these incomplete -positivists is not to appeal to some dogma or outer authority but -rather to turn against them their own principles. Thus Diderot, a -notable example of the incomplete positivist and a chief source of -naturalistic tendency, says that “everything is experimental in man.” -Now the word experimental has somewhat narrowed in meaning since the -time of Diderot. If one takes the saying to mean that everything in man -is a matter of experience one should accept it unreservedly and then -plant oneself firmly on the facts of experience that Diderot and other -incomplete positivists have refused to recognize. - -The man who plants himself, not on outer authority but on experience, -is an individualist. To be modern in the sense I have defined is not -only to be positive and critical, but also--and this from the time of -Petrarch--to be individualistic. The establishment of a sound type -of individualism is indeed the specifically modern problem. It is -right here that the failure of the incomplete positivist, the man who -is positive only according to the natural law, is most conspicuous. -What prevails in the region of the natural law is endless change and -relativity; therefore the naturalistic positivist attacks all the -traditional creeds and dogmas for the very reason that they aspire to -fixity. Now all the ethical values of civilization have been associated -with these fixed beliefs; and so it has come to pass that with their -undermining by naturalism the ethical values themselves are in danger -of being swept away in the everlasting flux. Because the individual -who views life positively must give up unvarying creeds and dogmas -“anterior, exterior, and superior” to himself, it has been assumed -that he must also give up standards. For standards imply an element of -oneness somewhere, with reference to which it is possible to measure -the mere manifoldness and change. The naturalistic individualist, -however, refuses to recognize any such element of oneness. His own -private and personal self is to be the measure of all things and this -measure itself, he adds, is constantly changing. But to stop at this -stage is to be satisfied with the most dangerous of half-truths. -Thus Bergson’s assertion that “life is a perpetual gushing forth of -novelties” is in itself only a dangerous half-truth of this kind. The -constant element in life is, no less than the element of novelty and -change, a matter of observation and experience. As the French have it, -the more life changes the more it is the same thing. - -If, then, one is to be a sound individualist, an individualist with -human standards--and in an age like this that has cut loose from its -traditional moorings, the very survival of civilization would seem to -hinge on its power to produce such a type of individualist--one must -grapple with what Plato terms the problem of the One and the Many. -My own solution of this problem, it may be well to point out, is not -purely Platonic. Because one can perceive immediately an element -of unity in things, it does not follow that one is justified in -establishing a world of essences or entities or “ideas” above the flux. -To do this is to fall away from a positive and critical into a more -or less speculative attitude; it is to risk setting up a metaphysic -of the One. Those who put exclusive emphasis on the element of change -in things are in no less obvious danger of falling away from the -positive and critical attitude into a metaphysic of the Many.[4] This -for example is the error one finds in the contemporary thinkers who -seem to have the cry, thinkers like James and Bergson and Dewey and -Croce. They are very far from satisfying the requirements of a complete -positivism; they are seeking rather to build up their own intoxication -with the element of change into a complete view of life, and so are -turning their backs on one whole side of experience in a way that often -reminds one of the ancient Greek sophists. The history of philosophy -since the Greeks is to a great extent the history of the clashes of the -metaphysicians of the One and the metaphysicians of the Many. In the -eyes of the complete positivist this history therefore reduces itself -largely to a monstrous logomachy. - -Life does not give here an element of oneness and there an element of -change. It gives a _oneness that is always changing_. The oneness and -the change are inseparable. Now if what is stable and permanent is felt -as real, the side of life that is always slipping over into something -else or vanishing away entirely is, as every student of psychology -knows, associated rather with the feeling of illusion. If a man -attends solely to this side of life he will finally come, like Leconte -de Lisle, to look upon it as a “torrent of mobile chimeras,” as an -“endless whirl of vain appearances.” To admit that the oneness of life -and the change are inseparable is therefore to admit that such reality -as man can know positively is inextricably mixed up with illusion. -Moreover man does not observe the oneness that is always changing from -the outside; he is a part of the process, he is himself a oneness that -is always changing. Though imperceptible at any particular moment, the -continuous change that is going on leads to differences--those, let us -say, between a human individual at the age of six weeks and the same -individual at the age of seventy--which are sufficiently striking: and -finally this human oneness that is always changing seems to vanish -away entirely. From all this it follows that an enormous element -of illusion--and this is a truth the East has always accepted more -readily than the West--enters into the idea of personality itself. If -the critical spirit is once allowed to have its way, it will not rest -content until it has dissolved life into a mist of illusion. Perhaps -the most positive and critical account of man in modern literature is -that of Shakespeare: - - We are such stuff - As dreams are made on, and our little life - Is rounded with a sleep. - -But, though strictly considered, life is but a web of illusion and a -dream within a dream, it is a dream that needs to be managed with the -utmost discretion, if it is not to turn into a nightmare. In other -words, however much life may mock the metaphysician, the problem of -conduct remains. There is always the unity at the heart of the change; -it is possible, however, to get at this real and abiding element and -so at the standards with reference to which the dream of life may be -rightly managed only through a veil of illusion. The problem of the -One and the Many, the ultimate problem of thought, can therefore be -solved only by a right use of illusion. In close relation to illusion -and the questions that arise in connection with it is all that we -have come to sum up in the word imagination. The use of this word, at -least in anything like its present extension, is, one should note, -comparatively recent. Whole nations and periods of the past can -scarcely be said to have had any word corresponding to imagination in -this extended sense. Yet the thinkers of the past have treated, at -times profoundly, under the head of fiction or illusion the questions -that we should treat under the head of imagination.[5] In the “Masters -of Modern French Criticism” I was above all preoccupied with the -problem of the One and the Many and the failure of the nineteenth -century to deal with it adequately. My effort in this present work is -to show that this failure can be retrieved only by a deeper insight -into the imagination and its all-important rôle in both literature -and life. Man is cut off from immediate contact with anything abiding -and therefore worthy to be called real, and condemned to live in an -element of fiction or illusion, but he may, I have tried to show, lay -hold with the aid of the imagination on the element of oneness that -is inextricably blended with the manifoldness and change and to just -that extent may build up a sound model for imitation. One tends to -be an individualist with true standards, to put the matter somewhat -differently, only in so far as one understands the relation between -appearance and reality--what the philosophers call the epistemological -problem. This problem, though it cannot be solved abstractly and -metaphysically, can be solved practically and in terms of actual -conduct. Inasmuch as modern philosophy has failed to work out any such -solution, it is hard to avoid the conclusion that modern philosophy is -bankrupt, not merely from Kant, but from Descartes. - -The supreme maxim of the ethical positivist is: By their fruits shall -ye know them. If I object to a romantic philosophy it is because I do -not like its fruits. I infer from its fruits that this philosophy has -made a wrong use of illusion. “All those who took the romantic promises -at their face value,” says Bourget, “rolled in abysses of despair and -ennui.”[6] If any one still holds, as many of the older romanticists -held, that it is a distinguished thing to roll in abysses of despair -and ennui, he should read me no further. He will have no sympathy with -my point of view. If any one, on the other hand, accepts my criterion -but denies that Rousseauistic living has such fruits, it has been my -aim so to accumulate evidence that he will be confronted with the task -of refuting not a set of theories but a body of facts. My whole method, -let me repeat, is experimental, or it might be less ambiguous to say if -the word were a fortunate one, experiential. The illustrations I have -given of any particular aspect of the movement are usually only a small -fraction of those I have collected--themselves no doubt only a fraction -of the illustrations that might be collected from printed sources. M. -Maigron’s investigation[7] into the fruits of romantic living suggests -the large additions that might be made to these printed sources from -manuscript material. - -My method indeed is open in one respect to grave misunderstanding. -From the fact that I am constantly citing passages from this or that -author and condemning the tendency for which these passages stand, -the reader will perhaps be led to infer a total condemnation of the -authors so quoted. But the inference may be very incorrect. I am -not trying to give rounded estimates of individuals--delightful and -legitimate as that type of criticism is--but to trace main currents as -a part of my search for a set of principles to oppose to naturalism. -I call attention for example to the Rousseauistic and primitivistic -elements in Wordsworth but do not assert that this is the whole -truth about Wordsworth. One’s views as to the philosophical value -of Rousseauism must, however, weigh heavily in a total judgment of -Wordsworth. Criticism is such a difficult art because one must not -only have principles but must apply them flexibly and intuitively. No -one would accuse criticism at present of lacking flexibility. It has -grown so flexible in fact as to become invertebrate. One of my reasons -for practicing the present type of criticism, is the conviction that -because of a lack of principles the type of criticism that aims at -rounded estimates of individuals is rapidly ceasing to have any meaning. - -I should add that if I had attempted rounded estimates they would often -have been more favorable than might be gathered from my comments here -and elsewhere on the romantic leaders. One is justified in leaning -towards severity in the laying down of principles, but should nearly -always incline to indulgence in the application of them. In a sense one -may say with Goethe that the excellencies are of the individual, the -defects of the age. It is especially needful to recall distinctions -of this kind in the case of Rousseau himself and my treatment of him. -M. Lanson has dwelt on the strange duality of Rousseau’s nature. -“The writer,” he says, “is a poor dreamy creature who approaches -action only with alarm and with every manner of precaution, and who -understands the applications of his boldest doctrines in a way to -reassure conservatives and satisfy opportunists. But the work for its -part detaches itself from the author, lives its independent life, -and, heavily charged with revolutionary explosives which neutralize -the moderate and conciliatory elements Rousseau has put into it for -his own satisfaction, it exasperates and inspires revolt and fires -enthusiasms and irritates hatreds; it is the mother of violence, the -source of all that is uncompromising, it launches the simple souls -who give themselves up to its strange virtue upon the desperate quest -of the absolute, an absolute to be realized now by anarchy and now by -social despotism.”[8] I am inclined to discover in the Rousseau who, -according to M. Lanson, is merely timorous, a great deal of shrewdness -and at times something even better than shrewdness. The question is -not perhaps very important, for M. Lanson is surely right in affirming -that the Rousseau who has moved the world--and that for reasons I shall -try to make plain--is Rousseau the extremist and foe of compromise; -and so it is to this Rousseau that as a student of main tendencies I -devote almost exclusive attention. I am not, however, seeking to make -a scapegoat even of the radical and revolutionary Rousseau. One of -my chief objections, indeed, to Rousseauism, as will appear in the -following pages, is that it encourages the making of scapegoats. - -If I am opposed to Rousseauism because of its fruits in experience, I -try to put what I have to offer as a substitute on the same positive -basis. Now experience is of many degrees: first of all one’s purely -personal experience, an infinitesimal fragment; and then the experience -of one’s immediate circle, of one’s time and country, of the near past -and so on in widening circles. The past which as dogma the ethical -positivist rejects, as experience he not only admits but welcomes. He -can no more dispense with it indeed than the naturalistic positivist -can dispense with his laboratory. He insists moreover on including -the remoter past in his survey. Perhaps the most pernicious of all -the conceits fostered by the type of progress we owe to science is -the conceit that we have outgrown this older experience. One should -endeavor, as Goethe says, to oppose to the aberrations of the hour, the -masses of universal history. There are special reasons just now why -this background to which one appeals should not be merely Occidental. -An increasing material contact between the Occident and the Far East -is certain. We should be enlightened by this time as to the perils -of material contact between men and bodies of men who have no deeper -understanding. Quite apart from this consideration the experience of -the Far East completes and confirms in a most interesting way that of -the Occident. We can scarcely afford to neglect it if we hope to work -out a truly ecumenical wisdom to oppose to the sinister one-sidedness -of our current naturalism. Now the ethical experience of the Far East -may be summed up for practical purposes in the teachings and influence -of two men, Confucius and Buddha.[9] To know the Buddhistic and -Confucian teachings in their true spirit is to know what is best and -most representative in the ethical experience of about half the human -race for over seventy generations. - -A study of Buddha and Confucius suggests, as does a study of the great -teachers of the Occident, that under its bewildering surface variety -human experience falls after all into a few main categories. I myself -am fond of distinguishing three levels on which a man may experience -life--the naturalistic, the humanistic, and the religious. Tested by -its fruits Buddhism at its best confirms Christianity. Submitted to the -same test Confucianism falls in with the teaching of Aristotle and in -general with that of all those who from the Greeks down have proclaimed -decorum and the law of measure. This is so obviously true that -Confucius has been called the Aristotle of the East. Not only has the -Far East had in Buddhism a great religious movement and in Confucianism -a great humanistic movement, it has also had in early Taoism[10] a -movement that in its attempts to work out naturalistic equivalents of -humanistic or religious insight, offers almost startling analogies to -the movement I am here studying. - -Thus both East and West have not only had great religious and -humanistic disciplines which when tested by their fruits confirm one -another, bearing witness to the element of oneness, the constant -element in human experience, but these disciplines have at times -been conceived in a very positive spirit. Confucius indeed, though a -moral realist, can scarcely be called a positivist; he aimed rather -to attach men to the past by links of steel. He reminds us in this as -in some other ways of the last of the great Tories in the Occident, -Dr. Johnson. Buddha on the other hand was an individualist. He wished -men to rest their belief neither on his authority[11] nor on that -of tradition.[12] No one has ever made a more serious effort to put -religion on a positive and critical basis. It is only proper that I -acknowledge my indebtedness to the great Hindu positivist: my treatment -of the problem of the One and the Many, for example, is nearer to -Buddha than to Plato. Yet even if the general thesis be granted that it -is desirable to put the “law for man” on a positive and critical basis, -the question remains whether the more crying need just now is for -positive and critical humanism or for positive and critical religion. -I have discussed this delicate and difficult question more fully in my -last chapter, but may give at least one reason here for inclining to -the humanistic solution. I have been struck in my study of the past -by the endless self-deception to which man is subject when he tries -to pass too abruptly from the naturalistic to the religious level. -The world, it is hard to avoid concluding, would have been a better -place if more persons had made sure they were human before setting -out to be superhuman; and this consideration would seem to apply with -special force to a generation like the present that is wallowing in -the trough of naturalism. After all to be a good humanist is merely to -be moderate and sensible and decent. It is much easier for a man to -deceive himself and others regarding his supernatural lights than it is -regarding the degree to which he is moderate and sensible and decent. - -The past is not without examples of a positive and critical humanism. I -have already mentioned Aristotle. If by his emphasis on the mediatory -virtues he reminds one of Confucius, by his positive method and -intensely analytical temper he reminds one rather of Buddha. When -Aristotle rises to the religious level and discourses of the “life of -vision” he is very Buddhistic. When Buddha for his part turns from the -religious life to the duties of the layman he is purely Aristotelian. -Aristotle also deals positively with the natural law. He is indeed a -complete positivist, and not, like the man of the nineteenth century, -positive according to the natural law alone. The Aristotle that -should specially concern us, however, is the positive and critical -humanist--the Aristotle, let us say, of the “Ethics” and “Politics” and -“Poetics.” Just as I have called the point of view of the scientific -and utilitarian naturalist Baconian,[13] and that of the emotional -naturalist Rousseauistic, so I would term the point of view that I -am myself seeking to develop Aristotelian. Aristotle has laid down -once for all the principle that should guide the ethical positivist. -“Truth,” he says, “in matters of moral action is judged from facts and -from actual life. … So what we should do is to examine the preceding -statements [of Solon and other wise men] by referring them to facts -and to actual life, and when they harmonize with facts we may accept -them, when they are at variance with them conceive of them as mere -theories.”[14] - -It is in this sense alone that I aspire to be called an Aristotelian; -for one risks certain misunderstandings in using the name of -Aristotle.[15] The authority of this great positivist has been invoked -innumerable times throughout the ages as a substitute for direct -observation. Aristotle was not only the prop and mainstay of dogma -for centuries during the Middle Ages, but dogmatic Aristotelianism -survived to no small extent, especially in literature, throughout the -neo-classical period. It was no doubt natural enough that the champions -of the modern spirit should have rejected Aristotle along with the -traditional order of which he had been made a support. Yet if they had -been more modern they might have seen in him rather a chief precursor. -They might have learned from him how to have standards and at the same -time not be immured in dogma. As it is, those who call themselves -modern have come to adopt a purely exploratory attitude towards life. -“On desperate seas long wont to roam,” they have lost more and more -the sense of what is normal and central in human experience. But to -get away from what is normal and central is to get away from wisdom. -My whole argument on the negative side, if I may venture on a final -summing up, is that the naturalistic movement in the midst of which -we are still living had from the start this taint of eccentricity. I -have tried to show in detail the nature of the aberration. As for the -results, they are being written large in disastrous events. On its -constructive side, my argument, if it makes any appeal at all, will -be to those for whom the symbols through which the past has received -its wisdom have become incredible, and who, seeing at the same time -that the break with the past that took place in the eighteenth century -was on unsound lines, hold that the remedy for the partial positivism -that is the source of this unsoundness, is a more complete positivism. -Nothing is more perilous than to be only half critical. This is to -risk being the wrong type of individualist--the individualist who has -repudiated outer control without achieving inner control. “People mean -nowadays by a philosopher,” says Rivarol, “not the man who learns the -great art of mastering his passions or adding to his insight, but -the man who has cast off prejudices without acquiring virtues.” That -view of philosophy has not ceased to be popular. The whole modern -experiment is threatened with breakdown simply because it has not been -sufficiently modern. One should therefore not rest content until one -has, with the aid of the secular experience of both the East and the -West, worked out a point of view so modern that, compared with it, that -of our young radicals will seem antediluvian. - - - - -ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM - - - - -CHAPTER I - -THE TERMS CLASSIC AND ROMANTIC - - -The words classic and romantic, we are often told, cannot be defined -at all, and even if they could be defined, some would add, we should -not be much profited. But this inability or unwillingness to define may -itself turn out to be only one aspect of a movement that from Rousseau -to Bergson has sought to discredit the analytical intellect--what -Wordsworth calls “the false secondary power by which we multiply -distinctions.” However, those who are with Socrates rather than with -Rousseau or Wordsworth in this matter, will insist on the importance -of definition, especially in a chaotic era like the present; for -nothing is more characteristic of such an era than its irresponsible -use of general terms. Now to measure up to the Socratic standard, a -definition must not be abstract and metaphysical, but experimental; -it must not, that is, reflect our opinion of what a word should mean, -but what it actually has meant. Mathematicians may be free at times -to frame their own definitions, but in the case of words like classic -and romantic, that have been used innumerable times, and used not in -one but in many countries, such a method is inadmissible. One must -keep one’s eye on actual usage. One should indeed allow for a certain -amount of freakishness in this usage. Beaumarchais, for example, makes -classic synonymous with barbaric.[16] One may disregard an occasional -aberration of this kind, but if one can find only confusion and -inconsistency in all the main uses of words like classic and romantic, -the only procedure for those who speak or write in order to be -understood is to banish the words from their vocabulary. - -Now to define in a Socratic way two things are necessary: one must -learn to see a common element in things that are apparently different -and also to discriminate between things that are apparently similar. -A Newton, to take the familiar instance of the former process, saw a -common element in the fall of an apple and the motion of a planet; -and one may perhaps without being a literary Newton discover a common -element in all the main uses of the word romantic as well as in all -the main uses of the word classic; though some of the things to which -the word romantic in particular has been applied seem, it must be -admitted, at least as far apart as the fall of an apple and the motion -of a planet. The first step is to perceive the something that connects -two or more of these things apparently so diverse, and then it may be -found necessary to refer this unifying trait itself back to something -still more general, and so on until we arrive, not indeed at anything -absolute--the absolute will always elude us--but at what Goethe calls -the original or underlying phenomenon (_Urphänomen_). A fruitful source -of false definition is to take as primary in a more or less closely -allied group of facts what is actually secondary--for example, to fix -upon the return to the Middle Ages as the central fact in romanticism, -whereas this return is only symptomatic; it is very far from being the -original phenomenon. Confused and incomplete definitions of romanticism -have indeed just that origin--they seek to put at the centre something -that though romantic is not central but peripheral, and so the whole -subject is thrown out of perspective. - -My plan then is to determine to the best of my ability, in connection -with a brief historical survey, the common element in the various uses -of the words classic and romantic; and then, having thus disposed of -the similarities, to turn to the second part of the art of defining -and deal, also historically, with the differences. For my subject is -not romanticism in general, but only a particular type of romanticism, -and this type of romanticism needs to be seen as a recoil, not from -classicism in general, but from a particular type of classicism. - - -I - -The word romantic when traced historically is found to go back to -the old French _roman_ of which still elder forms are _romans_ and -_romant_. These and similar formations derive ultimately from the -mediæval Latin adverb _romanice_. _Roman_ and like words meant -originally the various vernaculars derived from Latin, just as the -French still speak of these vernaculars as _les langues romanes_; -and then the word _roman_ came to be applied to tales written in the -various vernaculars, especially in old French. Now with what features -of these tales were people most struck? The reply to this question is -found in a passage of a fifteenth-century Latin manuscript:[17] “From -the reading of certain romantics, that is, books of poetry composed in -French on military deeds which are for the most part fictitious.”[18] -Here the term romantic is applied to books that we should still -call romantic and for the very same reason, namely, because of the -predominance in these books of the element of fiction over reality. - -In general a thing is romantic when, as Aristotle would say, it is -wonderful rather than probable; in other words, when it violates the -normal sequence of cause and effect in favor of adventure. Here is -the fundamental contrast between the words classic and romantic which -meets us at the outset and in some form or other persists in all the -uses of the word down to the present day. A thing is romantic when it -is strange, unexpected, intense, superlative, extreme, unique,[19] -etc. A thing is classical, on the other hand, when it is not unique, -but representative of a class. In this sense medical men may speak -correctly of a classic case of typhoid fever, or a classic case of -hysteria. One is even justified in speaking of a classic example of -romanticism. By an easy extension of meaning a thing is classical when -it belongs to a high class or to the best class. - -The type of romanticism referred to in the fifteenth-century manuscript -was, it will be observed, the spontaneous product of the popular -imagination of the Middle Ages. We may go further and say that the -uncultivated human imagination in all times and places is romantic in -the same way. It hungers for the thrilling and the marvellous and is, -in short, incurably melodramatic. All students of the past know how, -when the popular imagination is left free to work on actual historical -characters and events, it quickly introduces into these characters -and events the themes of universal folk-lore, and makes a ruthless -sacrifice of reality to the love of melodramatic surprise. For example, -the original nucleus of historical fact has almost disappeared in the -lurid melodramatic tale “Les quatre fils Aymon,” which has continued, -as presented in the “Bibliothèque Bleue,” to appeal to the French -peasant down to our own times. Those who look with alarm on recent -attacks upon romanticism should therefore be comforted. All children, -nearly all women and the vast majority of men always have been, are -and probably always will be romantic. This is true even of a classical -period like the second half of the seventeenth century in France. -Boileau is supposed to have killed the vogue of the interminable -romances of the early seventeenth century which themselves continue -the spirit of the mediæval romances. But recent investigations have -shown that the vogue of these romances continued until well on into the -eighteenth century. They influenced the imagination of Rousseau, the -great modern romancer. - -But to return to the history of the word romantic. The first printed -examples of the word in any modern tongue are, it would seem, to be -found in English. The Oxford Dictionary cites the following from F. -Greville’s “Life of Sidney” (written before 1628, published in 1652): -“Doe not his Arcadian romantics live after him?”--meaning apparently -ideas or features suggestive of romance. Of extreme interest is the -use of the word in Evelyn’s “Diary” (3 August, 1654): “Were Sir Guy’s -grot improved as it might be, it were capable of being made a most -romantic and pleasant place.” The word is not only used in a favorable -sense, but it is applied to nature; and it is this use of the word in -connection with outer nature that French and German literatures are -going to derive later from England. Among the early English uses of -the word romantic may be noted: “There happened this extraordinary -case--one of the most romantique that ever I heard in my life and could -not have believed,”[20] etc. “Most other authors that I ever read -either have wild romantic tales wherein they strain Love and Honor to -that ridiculous height that it becomes burlesque,”[21] etc. The word -becomes fairly common by the year 1700 and thousands of examples could -be collected from English writers in the eighteenth century. Here are -two early eighteenth-century instances: - - “The gentleman I am married to made love to me in rapture but - it was the rapture of a Christian and a man of Honor, not a - romantic hero or a whining coxcomb.”[22] - - Whether the charmer sinner it or saint it - If folly grow romantick I must paint it.[23] - -The early French and German uses of the word romantic seem to derive -from England. One important point is to be noted as to France. Before -using the word _romantique_ the French used the word _romanesque_ in -the sense of wild, unusual, adventurous--especially in matters of -sentiment, and they have continued to employ _romanesque_ alongside -_romantique_, which is now practically used only of the romantic -school. A great deal of confusion is thus avoided into which we fall -in English from having only the one word romantic, which must do duty -for both _romantique_ and _romanesque_. An example of _romantique_ -is found in French as early as 1675;[24] but the word owed its vogue -practically to the anglomania that set in about the middle of the -eighteenth century. The first very influential French example of the -word is appropriately found in Rousseau in the Fifth Promenade (1777): -“The shores of the Lake of Bienne are more wild and romantic than those -of the Lake of Geneva.” The word _romantique_ was fashionable in France -especially as applied to scenery from about the year 1785, but without -any thought as yet of applying it to a literary school. - -In Germany the word _romantisch_ as an equivalent of the French -_romanesque_ and modern German _romanhaft_, appears at the end of -the seventeenth century and plainly as a borrowing from the French. -Heidigger, a Swiss, used it several times in his “Mythoscopia -romantica,”[25] an attack on romances and the wild and vain imaginings -they engender. According to Heidigger the only resource against -romanticism in this sense is religion. In Germany as in France the -association of romantic with natural scenery comes from England, -especially from the imitations and translations of Thomson’s “Seasons.” - -In the second half of the eighteenth century the increasingly favorable -use of words like Gothic and enthusiastic as well as the emergence of -words like sentimental and picturesque are among the symptoms of a new -movement, and the fortunes of the word romantic were more or less bound -up with this movement. Still, apart from its application to natural -scenery, the word is as yet far from having acquired a favorable -connotation if we are to believe an essay by John Foster on the -“Application of the Epithet Romantic” (1805). Foster’s point of view is -not unlike that of Heidigger. Romantic, he says, had come to be used -as a term of vague abuse, whereas it can be used rightly only of the -ascendancy of imagination over judgment, and is therefore synonymous -with such words as wild, visionary, extravagant. “A man possessing -so strong a judgment and so subordinate a fancy as Dean Swift would -hardly have been made romantic … if he had studied all the books in Don -Quixote’s library.” It is not, Foster admits, a sign of high endowment -for a youth to be too coldly judicial, too deaf to the blandishments of -imaginative illusion. Yet in general a man should strive to bring his -imagination under the control of sound reason. But how is it possible -thus to prevail against the deceits of fancy? Right knowing, he asserts -very un-Socratically, is not enough to ensure right doing. At this -point Foster changes from the tone of a literary essay to that of a -sermon, and, maintaining a thesis somewhat similar to that of Pascal in -the seventeenth century and Heidigger in the eighteenth, he concludes -that a man’s imagination will run away with his judgment or reason -unless he have the aid of divine grace. - - -II - -When Foster wrote his essay there was no question as yet in England -of a romantic school. Before considering how the word came to be -applied to a particular movement we need first to bring out more -fully certain broad conflicts of tendency during the seventeenth and -eighteenth centuries, conflicts that are not sufficiently revealed -by the occasional uses during this period of the word romantic. In -the contrast Foster established between judgment and imagination he -is merely following a long series of neo-classical critics and this -contrast not only seemed to him and these critics, but still seems -to many, the essential contrast between classicism and romanticism. -We shall be helped in understanding how judgment (or reason) and -imagination came thus to be sharply contrasted if we consider briefly -the changes in the meaning of the word wit during the neo-classical -period, and also if we recollect that the contrast between judgment and -imagination is closely related to the contrast the French are so fond -of establishing between the general sense (_le sens commun_) and the -private sense or sense of the individual (_le sens propre_). - -In the sixteenth century prime emphasis was put not upon common sense, -but upon wit or conceit or ingenuity (in the sense of quickness of -imagination). The typical Elizabethan strove to excel less by judgment -than by invention, by “high-flying liberty of conceit”; like Falstaff -he would have a brain “apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full of -nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes.” Wit at this time, it should -be remembered, was synonymous not only with imagination but with -intellect (in opposition to will). The result of the worship of wit in -this twofold sense was a sort of intellectual romanticism. Though its -origins are no doubt mediæval, it differs from the ordinary romanticism -of the Middle Ages to which I have already referred in being thus -concerned with thought rather than with action. Towards the end of the -Renaissance and in the early seventeenth century especially, people -were ready to pursue the strange and surprising thought even at the -risk of getting too far away from the workings of the normal mind. -Hence the “points” and “conceits” that spread, as Lowell put it, like -a “cutaneous eruption” over the face of Europe; hence the Gongorists, -and Cultists, the Marinists and Euphuists, the _précieux_ and the -“metaphysical” poets. And then came the inevitable swing away from all -this fantasticality towards common sense. A demand arose for something -that was less rare and “precious” and more representative. - -This struggle between the general sense and the sense of the individual -stands out with special clearness in France. A model was gradually -worked out by aid of the classics, especially the Latin classics, as -to what man should be. Those who were in the main movement of the time -elaborated a great convention, that is they _came together_ about -certain things. They condemned in the name of their convention those -who were too indulgent of their private sense, in other words, too -eccentric in their imaginings. A Théophile, for example, fell into -disesteem for refusing to restrain his imagination, for asserting the -type of “spontaneity” that would have won him favor in any romantic -period.[26] - -The swing away from intellectual romanticism can also be traced in -the changes that took place in the meaning of the word wit in both -France and England. One of the main tasks of the French critics of the -seventeenth century and of English critics, largely under the lead of -the French, was to distinguish between true and false wit. The work -that would have been complimented a little earlier as “witty” and -“conceited” is now censured as fantastic and far-fetched, as lacking in -judicial control over the imagination, and therefore in general appeal. -The movement away from the sense of the individual towards common sense -goes on steadily from the time of Malherbe to that of Boileau. Balzac -attacks Ronsard for his individualistic excess, especially for his -audacity in inventing words without reference to usage. Balzac himself -is attacked by Boileau for his affectation, for his straining to say -things differently from other people. In so far his wit was not true -but false. La Bruyère, in substantial accord with Boileau, defines -false wit as wit which is lacking in good sense and judgment and “in -which the imagination has too large a share.”[27] - -What the metaphysical poets in England understood by wit, according -to Dr. Johnson, was the pursuit of their thoughts to their last -ramifications, and in this pursuit of the singular and the novel they -lost the “grandeur of generality.” This imaginative quest of rarity -led to the same recoil as in France, to a demand for common sense and -judgment. The opposite extreme from the metaphysical excess is reached -when the element of invention is eliminated entirely from wit and it is -reduced, as it is by Pope, to rendering happily the general sense-- - - What oft was thought but ne’er so well expressed. - -Dr. Johnson says that the decisive change in the meaning of the word -wit took place about the time of Cowley. Important evidences of this -change and also of the new tendency to depreciate the imagination -is also found in certain passages of Hobbes. Hobbes identifies the -imagination with the memory of outer images and so looks on it as -“decaying sense.”[28] “They who observe similitudes,” he remarks -elsewhere, making a distinction that was to be developed by Locke and -accepted by Addison, “in case they be such as are but rarely observed -by others are said to have a good wit; by which, in this occasion, is -meant a good fancy” (wit has here the older meaning). “But they who -distinguish and observe differences,” he continues, “are said to have -a good judgment. Fancy without the help of judgment is not worthy of -commendation, whereas judgment is commended for itself without the help -of fancy. Indeed without steadiness and direction to some end, a great -fancy is one kind of madness.” “Judgment without fancy,” he concludes, -“is wit” (this anticipates the extreme neo-classical use of the word -wit), “but fancy without judgment, not.” - -Dryden betrays the influence of Hobbes when he says of the period of -incubation of his “Rival Ladies”: “Fancy was yet in its first work, -moving the sleeping images of things towards the light, there to be -distinguished and either chosen or rejected by judgment.” Fancy or -imagination (the words were still synonymous), as conceived by the -English neo-classicists, often shows a strange vivacity for a faculty -that is after all only “decaying sense.” “Fancy without judgment,” -says Dryden, “is a hot-mouthed jade without a curb.” “Fancy,” writes -Rymer in a similar vein, “leaps and frisks, and away she’s gone; whilst -reason rattles the chain and follows after.” The following lines of -Mulgrave are typical of the neo-classical notion of the relation -between fancy and judgment: - - As all is dullness when the Fancy’s bad, - So without Judgment, Fancy is but mad. - Reason is that substantial, useful part - Which gains the Head, while t’ other wins the Heart.[29] - -The opposition established by the neo-classicist in passages of this -kind is too mechanical. Fancy and judgment do not seem to coöperate -but to war with one another. In case of doubt the neo-classicist is -always ready to sacrifice fancy to the “substantial, useful part,” -and so he seems too negative and cool and prosaic in his reason, and -this is because his reason is so largely a protest against a previous -romantic excess. What had been considered genius in the time of the -“metaphysicals” had too often turned out to be only oddity. With this -warning before them men kept their eyes fixed very closely on the -model of normal human nature that had been set up, and imitated it -very literally and timorously. A man was haunted by the fear that he -might be “monstrous,” and so, as Rymer put it, “satisfy nobody’s maggot -but his own.” Correctness thus became a sort of tyranny. We suffer to -the present day from this neo-classical failure to work out a sound -conception of the imagination in its relation to good sense. Because -the neo-classicist held the imagination lightly as compared with -good sense the romantic rebels, were led to hold good sense lightly -as compared with imagination. The romantic view in short is too much -the neo-classical view turned upside down; and, as Sainte-Beuve says, -nothing resembles a hollow so much as a swelling. - - -III - -Because the classicism against which romanticism rebelled was -inadequate it does not follow that every type of classicism suffers -from a similar inadequacy. The great movement away from imaginative -unrestraint towards regularity and good sense took place in the main -under French auspices. In general the French have been the chief -exponents of the classic spirit in modern times. They themselves feel -this so strongly that a certain group in France has of late years -inclined to use interchangeably the words classicist and nationalist. -But this is a grave confusion, for if the classic spirit is anything -at all it is in its essence not local and national, but universal -and human. To be sure, any particular manifestation of classicism -will of necessity contain elements that are less universal, elements -that reflect merely a certain person or persons, or a certain age and -country. This is a truth that we scarcely need to have preached to us; -for with the growth of the historical method we have come to fix our -attention almost exclusively on these local and relative elements. The -complete critic will accept the historical method but be on his guard -against its excess. He will see an element in man that is set above the -local and the relative; he will learn to detect this abiding element -through all the flux of circumstance; in Platonic language, he will -perceive the One in the Many. - -Formerly, it must be admitted, critics were not historical enough. -They took to be of the essence of classicism what was merely its local -coloring, especially the coloring it received from the French of the -seventeenth century. If we wish to distinguish between essence and -accident in the classic spirit we must get behind the French of the -seventeenth century, behind the Italians of the sixteenth century who -laid the foundations of neo-classical theory, behind the Romans who -were the immediate models of most neo-classicists, to the source of -classicism in Greece. Even in Greece the classic spirit is very much -implicated in the local and the relative, yet in the life of no other -people perhaps does what is universal in man shine forth more clearly -from what is only local and relative. We still need, therefore, to -return to Greece, not merely for the best practice, but for the best -theory of classicism; for this is still found in spite of all its -obscurities and incompleteness in the Poetics of Aristotle. If we have -recourse to this treatise, however, it must be on condition that we do -not, like the critics of the Renaissance, deal with it in an abstract -and dogmatic way (the form of the treatise it must be confessed gave -them no slight encouragement), but in a spirit akin to Aristotle’s own -as revealed in the total body of his writings--a spirit that is at its -best positive and experimental. - -Aristotle not only deals positively and experimentally with the natural -order and with man so far as he is a part of this order, but he deals -in a similar fashion with a side of man that the modern positivist -often overlooks. Like all the great Greeks Aristotle recognizes that -man is the creature of two laws: he has an ordinary or natural self -of impulse and desire and a human self that is known practically as a -power of control over impulse and desire. If man is to become human he -must not let impulse and desire run wild, but must oppose to everything -excessive in his ordinary self, whether in thought or deed or emotion, -the law of measure. This insistence on restraint and proportion is -rightly taken to be of the essence not merely of the Greek spirit but -of the classical spirit in general. The norm or standard that is to set -bounds to the ordinary self is got at by different types of classicists -in different ways and described variously: for example, as the human -law, or the better self, or reason (a word to be discussed more fully -later), or nature. Thus when Boileau says, “Let nature be your only -study,” he does not mean outer nature, nor again the nature of this or -that individual, but representative human nature. Having decided what -is normal either for man or some particular class of men the classicist -takes this normal “nature” for his model and proceeds to imitate it. -Whatever accords with the model he has thus set up he pronounces -natural or probable, whatever on the other hand departs too far from -what he conceives to be the normal type or the normal sequence of cause -and effect he holds to be “improbable” and unnatural or even, if it -attains an extreme of abnormality, “monstrous.” Whatever in conduct -or character is duly restrained and proportionate with reference to -the model is said to observe decorum. Probability and decorum are -identical in some of their aspects and closely related in all.[30] -To recapitulate, a general nature, a core of normal experience, is -affirmed by all classicists. From this central affirmation derives the -doctrine of imitation, and from imitation in turn the doctrines of -probability and decorum. - -But though all classicists are alike in insisting on nature, imitation, -probability and decorum, they differ widely, as I have already -intimated, in what they understand by these terms. Let us consider -first what Aristotle and the Greeks understand by them. The first point -to observe is that according to Aristotle one is to get his general -nature not on authority or second hand, but is to disengage it directly -for himself from the jumble of particulars that he has before his eyes. -He is not, says Aristotle, to imitate things as they are, but as they -ought to be. Thus conceived imitation is a creative act. Through all -the welter of the actual one penetrates to the real and so succeeds -without ceasing to be individual in suggesting the universal. Poetry -that is imitative in this sense is, according to Aristotle, more -“serious” and “philosophical” than history. History deals merely with -what has happened, whereas poetry deals with what may happen according -to probability or necessity. Poetry, that is, does not portray life -literally but extricates the deeper or ideal truth from the flux of -circumstance. One may add with Sydney that if poetry is thus superior -to history in being more serious and philosophical it resembles history -and is superior to philosophy in being concrete. - -The One that the great poet or artist perceives in the Many and that -gives to his work its high seriousness is not a fixed absolute. In -general the model that the highly serious man (ὁ σπουδαῖος) imitates -and that keeps his ordinary self within the bounds of decorum is not -to be taken as anything finite, as anything that can be formulated -once for all. This point is important for on it hinges every right -distinction not merely between the classic and the romantic, but -between the classic and the pseudo-classic. Romanticism has claimed -for itself a monopoly of imagination and infinitude, but on closer -examination, as I hope to show later, this claim, at least so far as -genuine classicism is concerned, will be found to be quite unjustified. -For the present it is enough to say that true classicism does not -rest on the observance of rules or the imitation of models but on an -immediate insight into the universal. Aristotle is especially admirable -in the account he gives of this insight and of the way it may manifest -itself in art and literature. One may be rightly imitative, he says, -and so have access to a superior truth and give others access to it -only by being a master of illusion. Though the great poet “breathes -immortal air,” though he sees behind the shows of sense a world of -more abiding relationships, he can convey his vision not directly but -only imaginatively. Aristotle, one should observe, does not establish -any hard and fast opposition between judgment and imagination, an -opposition that pervades not only the neo-classical movement but also -the romantic revolt from it. He simply affirms a supersensuous order -which one can perceive only with the help of fiction. The best art, -says Goethe in the true spirit of Aristotle, gives us the “illusion -of a higher reality.” This has the advantage of being experimental. -It is merely a statement of what one feels in the presence of a great -painting, let us say, or in reading a great poem. - - -IV - -After this attempt to define briefly with the help of the Greeks the -classical spirit in its essence we should be prepared to understand -more clearly the way in which this spirit was modified in neo-classical -times, especially in France. The first thing that strikes one about -the classicism of this period is that it does not rest on immediate -perception like that of the Greeks but on outer authority. The merely -dogmatic and traditional classicist gave a somewhat un-Greek meaning -to the doctrines of nature and imitation. Why imitate nature directly, -said Scaliger, when we have in Virgil a second nature? Imitation thus -came to mean the imitation of certain outer models and the following -of rules based on these models. Now it is well that one who aims at -excellence in any field should begin by a thorough assimilation of the -achievements of his great predecessors in this field. Unfortunately -the neo-classical theorist tended to impose a multitude of precepts -that were based on what was external rather than on what was vital -in the practice of his models. In so far the lesson of form that the -great ancients can always teach any one who approaches them in the -right spirit degenerated into formalism. This formalistic turn given -to the doctrine of imitation was felt from the outset to be a menace -to originality; to be incompatible, and everything hinges at last on -this point, with the spontaneity of the imagination. There was an -important reaction headed by men like Boileau, within the neo-classical -movement itself, against the oppression of the intuitive side of human -nature by mere dogma and authority, above all against the notion that -“regularity” is in itself any guarantee of literary excellence. A -school of rules was succeeded by a school of taste. Yet even to the -end the neo-classicist was too prone to reject as unnatural or even -monstrous everything that did not fit into one of the traditional -pigeon-holes. One must grant, indeed, that much noble work was achieved -under the neo-classical dispensation, work that shows a genuine insight -into the universal, but it is none the less evident that the view of -the imagination held during this period has a formalistic taint. - -This taint in neo-classicism is due not merely to its dogmatic and -mechanical way of dealing with the doctrine of imitation but also to -the fact that it had to reconcile classical with Christian dogma; and -the two antiquities, classical and Christian, if interpreted vitally -and in the spirit, were in many respects divergent and in some respects -contradictory. The general outcome of the attempts at reconciliation -made by the literary casuists of Italy and France was that Christianity -should have a monopoly of truth and classicism a monopoly of fiction. -For the true classicist, it will be remembered, the two things are -inseparable--he gets at his truth through a veil of fiction. Many of -the neo-classicists came to conceive of art as many romanticists were -to conceive of it later as a sort of irresponsible game or play, but -they were, it must be confessed, very inferior to the romanticists -in the spontaneity of their fiction. They went for this fiction as -for everything else to the models, and this meant in practice that -they employed the pagan myths, not as imaginative symbols of a higher -reality--it is still possible to employ them in that way--but merely in -Boileau’s phrase as “traditional ornaments” (_ornements reçus_). The -neo-classicist to be sure might so employ his “fiction” as to inculcate -a moral; in that case he is only too likely to give us instead of -the living symbol, dead allegory; instead of high seriousness, its -caricature, didacticism. The traditional stock of fiction became at -last so intolerably trite as to be rejected even by some of the late -neo-classicists. “The rejection and contempt of fiction,” said Dr. -Johnson (who indulged in it himself on occasion) “is rational and -manly.” But to reject fiction in the larger sense is to miss the true -driving power in human nature--the imagination. Before concluding, -however, that Dr. Johnson had no notion of the rôle of the imagination -one should read his attack on the theory of the three unities[31] which -was later to be turned to account by the romanticists. - -Now the three unities may be defended on an entirely legitimate -ground--on the ground namely that they make for concentration, a prime -virtue in the drama; but the grounds on which they were actually -imposed on the drama, especially in connection with the Quarrel of -the Cid, illustrate the corruption of another main classical doctrine, -that of probability or verisimilitude. In his dealings with probability -as in his dealings with imitation, the neo-classical formalist did -not allow sufficiently for the element of illusion. What he required -from the drama in the name of probability was not the “illusion of a -higher reality,” but strict logic or even literal deception. He was -not capable of a poetic faith, not willing to suspend his disbelief -on passing from the world of ordinary fact to the world of artistic -creation. Goethe was thinking especially of the neo-classical French -when he said: “As for the French, they will always be arrested by their -reason. They do not recognize that the imagination has its own laws -which are and always must be problematic for the reason.” - -It was also largely under French influence that the doctrine of -decorum, which touches probability at many points, was turned aside -from its true meaning. Decorum is in a way the peculiar doctrine of the -classicist, is in Milton’s phrase “the grand masterpiece to observe.” -The doctrines of the universal and the imitation of the universal go -deeper indeed than decorum, so much deeper that they are shared by -classicism with religion. The man who aspires to live religiously must -no less than the humanist look to some model set above his ordinary -self and imitate it. But though the classicist at his best meditates, -he does not, like the seeker after religious perfection, see in -meditation an end in itself but rather a support for the mediatory -virtues, the virtues of the man who would live to the best advantage -in this world rather than renounce it; and these virtues may be said -to be summed up in decorum. For the best type of Greek humanist, -a Sophocles let us say, decorum was a vital and immediate thing. -But there enters into decorum even from the time of the Alexandrian -Greeks, and still more into French neo-classical decorum, a marked -element of artificiality. The all-roundness and fine symmetry, the -poise and dignity that come from working within the bounds of the -human law, were taken to be the privilege not of man in general but of -a special social class. Take for instance verbal decorum: the French -neo-classicists assumed that if the speech of poetry is to be noble and -highly serious it must coincide with the speech of the aristocracy. As -Nisard puts it, they confused nobility of language with the language of -the nobility. Decorum was thus more or less merged with etiquette, so -that the standards of the stage and of literature in general came to -coincide, as Rousseau complains, with those of the drawing-room. More -than anything else this narrowing of decorum marks the decline from the -classic to the pseudo-classic, from form to formalism. - -While condemning pseudo-decorum one should remember that even a -Greek would have seen something paradoxical in a poem like Goethe’s -“Hermann und Dorothea” and its attempt to invest with epic grandeur the -affairs of villagers and peasants. After all, dignity and elevation -and especially the opportunity for important action, which is the -point on which the classicist puts prime emphasis, are normally -though not invariably associated with a high rather than with a mean -social estate. In general one should insist that the decorum worked -out under French auspices was far from being merely artificial. The -French gentleman (_honnête homme_) of the seventeenth century often -showed a moderation and freedom from over-emphasis, an exquisite tact -and urbanity that did not fall too far short of his immediate model, -Horace, and related him to the all-round man of the Greeks (καλὸς -κἀγαθός). To be sure an ascetic Christian like Pascal sees in decorum -a disguise of one’s ordinary self rather than a real curb upon it, and -feels that the gap is not sufficiently wide between even the best type -of the man of the world and the mere worldling. One needs, however, to -be very austere to disdain the art of living that has been fostered -by decorum from the Greeks down. Something of this art of living -survives even in a Chesterfield, who falls far short of the best type -of French gentleman and reminds one very remotely indeed of a Pericles. -Chesterfield’s half-jesting definition of decorum as the art of -combining the useful appearances of virtue with the solid satisfactions -of vice points the way to its ultimate corruption. Talleyrand, who -marks perhaps this last stage, was defined by Napoleon as “a silk -stocking filled with mud.” In some of its late exemplars decorum had -actually become, as Rousseau complains, the “mask of hypocrisy” and the -“varnish of vice.” - -One should not however, like Rousseau and the romanticists, judge of -decorum by what it degenerated into. Every doctrine of genuine worth is -disciplinary and men in the mass do not desire discipline. “Most men,” -says Aristotle, “would rather live in a disorderly than in a sober -manner.” But most men do not admit any such preference--that would be -crude and inartistic. They incline rather to substitute for the reality -of discipline some art of going through the motions. Every great -doctrine is thus in constant peril of passing over into some hollow -semblance or even, it may be, into some mere caricature of itself. When -one wishes therefore to determine the nature of decorum one should -think of a Milton, let us say, and not of a Talleyrand or even of a -Chesterfield. - -Milton imitated the models, like any other neo-classicist, but his -imitation was not, in Joubert’s phrase, that of one book by another -book, but of one soul by another soul. His decorum is therefore -imaginative; and it is the privilege of the imagination to give -the sense of spaciousness and infinitude. On the other hand, the -unimaginative way in which many of the neo-classicists held their -main tenets--nature, imitation, probability, decorum--narrowed unduly -the scope of the human spirit and appeared to close the gates of -the future. “Art and diligence have now done their best,” says Dr. -Johnson of the versification of Pope, “and what shall be added will be -the effort of tedious toil and needless curiosity.” Nothing is more -perilous than thus to seem to confine man in some pinfold; there is -something in him that refuses to acquiesce in any position as final; -he is in Nietzsche’s phrase the being who must always surpass himself. -The attempt to oppose external and mechanical barriers to the freedom -of the spirit will create in the long run an atmosphere of stuffiness -and smugness, and nothing is more intolerable than smugness. Men were -guillotined in the French Revolution, as Bagehot suggests, simply -because either they or their ancestors had been smug. Inert acceptance -of tradition and routine will be met sooner or later by the cry of -Faust: _Hinaus ins Freie!_ - -Before considering the value of the method chosen by Rousseau and -the romanticists for breaking up the “tiresome old heavens” and -escaping from smugness and stuffiness, one should note that the lack -of originality and genius which they lamented in the eighteenth -century--especially in that part of it known as the Enlightenment--was -not due entirely to pseudo-classic formalism. At least two other main -currents entered into the Enlightenment: first the empirical and -utilitarian current that goes back to Francis Bacon, and some would -say to Roger Bacon; and secondly the rationalistic current that goes -back to Descartes. English empiricism gained international vogue in -the philosophy of Locke, and Locke denies any supersensuous element -in human nature to which one may have access with the aid of the -imagination or in any other way. Locke’s method of precise naturalistic -observation is in itself legitimate; for man is plainly subject to -the natural law. What is not truly empirical is to bring the whole -of human nature under this law. One can do this only by piecing out -precise observation and experiment with dogmatic rationalism. One side -of Locke may therefore be properly associated with the father of modern -rationalists, Descartes. The attempt of the rationalist to lock up -life in some set of formulæ produces in the imaginative man a feeling -of oppression. He gasps for light and air. The very tracing of cause -and effect and in general the use of the analytical faculties--and -this is to fly to the opposite extreme--came to be condemned by the -romanticists as inimical to the imagination. Not only do they make -endless attacks on Locke, but at times they assail even Newton for -having mechanized life, though Newton’s comparison of himself to a -child picking up pebbles on the seashore would seem to show that he had -experienced “the feeling infinite.” - -The elaboration of science into a closed system with the aid of logic -and pure mathematics is as a matter of fact to be associated with -Descartes rather than with Newton. Neither Newton nor Descartes, one -scarcely needs add, wished to subject man entirely to the natural law -and the nexus of physical causes; they were not in short determinists. -Yet the superficial rationalism of the Enlightenment was in the main -of Cartesian origin. This Cartesian influence ramifies in so many -directions and is related at so many points to the literary movement, -and there has been so much confusion about this relationship, that we -need to pause here to make a few distinctions. - -Perhaps what most strikes one in the philosophy of Descartes is its -faith in logic and abstract reasoning and the closely allied processes -of mathematical demonstration. Anything that is not susceptible of -clear proof in this logical and almost mathematical sense is to -be rejected. Now this Cartesian notion of clearness is fatal to a -true classicism. The higher reality, the true classicist maintains, -cannot be thus demonstrated; it can only be grasped, and then never -completely, through a veil of imaginative illusion. Boileau is reported -to have said that Descartes had cut the throat of poetry; and this -charge is justified in so far as the Cartesian requires from poetry -a merely logical clearness. This conception of clearness was also -a menace to the classicism of the seventeenth century which rested -in the final analysis not on logic but on tradition. This appeared -very clearly in the early phases of the quarrel between ancients and -moderns when literary Cartesians like Perrault and Fontenelle attacked -classical dogma in the name of reason. In fact one may ask if any -doctrine has ever appeared so fatal to every form of tradition--not -merely literary but also religious and political--as Cartesianism. -The rationalist of the eighteenth century was for dismissing as -“prejudice” everything that could not give a clear account of itself -in the Cartesian sense. This riot of abstract reasoning (_la raison -raisonnante_) that prepared the way for the Revolution has been -identified by Taine and others with the classic spirit. A more vicious -confusion has seldom gained currency in criticism. It is true that -the French have mixed a great deal of logic with their conception of -the classic spirit, but that is because they have mixed a great deal -of logic with everything. I have already mentioned their tendency to -substitute a logical for an imaginative verisimilitude; and strenuously -logical classicists may be found in France from Chapelain to -Brunetière. Yet the distinction that should keep us from confusing mere -logic with the classic spirit was made by a Frenchman who was himself -violently logical and also a great geometrician--Pascal. One should -keep distinct, says Pascal, the _esprit de géométrie_ and the _esprit -de finesse_. The _esprit de finesse_ is not, like the _esprit de -géométrie_, abstract, but very concrete.[32] So far as a man possesses -the _esprit de finesse_ he is enabled to judge correctly of the -ordinary facts of life and of the relationships between man and man. -But these judgments rest upon such a multitude of delicate perceptions -that he is frequently unable to account for them logically. It is to -intuitive good sense and not to the _esprit de géométrie_ that the -gentleman (_honnête homme_) of the neo-classical period owed his fine -tact. Pascal himself finally took a stand against reason as understood -both by the Cartesian and by the man of the world. Unaided reason -he held is unable to prevail against the deceits of the imagination; -it needs the support of intuition--an intuition that he identifies -with grace, thus making it inseparable from the most austere form of -Christianity. The “heart,” he says, and this is the name he gives to -intuition, “has reasons of which the reason knows nothing.” A Plato or -an Aristotle would not have understood this divorce between reason and -intuition.[33] - -Pascal seems to get his insight only by flouting ordinary good sense. -He identifies this insight with a type of theological dogma of which -good sense was determined to be rid; and so it tended to get rid of -the insight along with the dogma. Classical dogma also seemed at times -to be in opposition to the intuitive good sense of the man of the -world. The man of the world therefore often inclined to assail both -the classical and the Christian tradition in the name of good sense, -just as the Cartesian inclined to assail these traditions in the name -of abstract reason. Perhaps the best exponent of anti-traditional good -sense in the seventeenth century was Molière. He vindicated nature, -and by nature he still meant in the main normal human nature, from -arbitrary constraints of every kind whether imposed by an ascetic -Christianity or by a narrow and pedantic classicism. Unfortunately -Molière is too much on the side of the opposition. He does not seem -to put his good sense into the service of some positive insight of -his own. Good sense may be of many degrees according to the order of -facts of which it has a correct perception. The order of facts in human -nature that Molière’s good sense perceived is not the highest and so -this good sense appears at times too ready to justify the bourgeois -against the man who has less timid and conventional views. So at -least Rousseau thought when he made his famous attack on Molière.[34] -Rousseau assailed Molière in the name of instinct as Pascal would have -assailed him in the name of insight, and fought sense with sensibility. -The hostility of Rousseau to Molière, according to M. Faguet, is that -of a romantic Bohemian to a philistine of genius.[35] One hesitates to -call Molière a philistine, but one may at least grant M. Faguet that -Molière’s good sense is not always sufficiently inspired. - -I have been trying to build up a background that will make clear -why the reason of the eighteenth century (whether we understand -by reason logic or good sense) had come to be superficial and -therefore oppressive to the imagination. It is only with reference -to this “reason” that one can understand the romantic revolt. But -neo-classical reason itself can be understood only with reference to -its background--as a recoil namely from a previous romantic excess. -This excess was manifested not only in the intellectual romanticism of -which I have already spoken, but in the cult of the romantic deed that -had flourished in the Middle Ages. This cult and the literature that -reflected it continued to appeal, even to the cultivated, well on into -the neo-classical period. It was therefore felt necessary to frame a -definition of reason that should be a rebuke to the extravagance and -improbability of the mediæval romances. When men became conscious -in the eighteenth century of the neo-classical meagerness on the -imaginative side they began to look back with a certain envy to the -free efflorescence of fiction in the Middle Ages. They began to ask -themselves with Hurd whether the reason and correctness they had won -were worth the sacrifice of a “world of fine fabling.”[36] We must not, -however, like Heine and many others, look on the romantic movement as -merely a return to the Middle Ages. We have seen that the men of the -Middle Ages themselves understood by romance not simply their own kind -of speech and writing in contrast with what was written in Latin, but -a kind of writing in which the pursuit of strangeness and adventure -predominated. This pursuit of strangeness and adventure will be found -to predominate in all types of romanticism. The type of romanticism, -however, which came in towards the end of the eighteenth century -did not, even when professedly mediæval, simply revert to the older -types. It was primarily not a romanticism of thought or of action, -the types we have encountered thus far, but a romanticism of feeling. -The beginnings of this emotional romanticism antedate considerably -the application of the word romantic to a particular literary school. -Before considering how the word came to be thus applied we shall need -to take a glance at eighteenth-century sentimentalism, especially at -the plea for genius and originality that, from about the middle of the -century on, were opposed to the tameness and servile imitation of the -neo-classicists. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -ROMANTIC GENIUS - - -Romanticism, it has been remarked, is all that is not Voltaire. The -clash between Rousseau and Voltaire is indeed not merely the clash -between two men, it is the clash between two incompatible views of -life. Voltaire is the end of the old world, as Goethe has put it, -Rousseau the beginning of the new. - -One is not to suppose, however, that Voltaire was a consistent champion -of the past. He is indeed with all his superficial clearness one of the -most incoherent of writers. At the same time that he defended classical -tradition he attacked Christian tradition, spreading abroad a spirit of -mockery and irreverence that tended to make every traditional belief -impossible. The “reason” to which he appeals has all the shallowness -that I have noticed in the “reason” of the eighteenth century. Though -he does not fall into the Cartesian excess of abstract reasoning, and -though the good sense that he most often understands by reason is -admirably shrewd within certain bounds, he nevertheless falls very -far short of the standards of a true classicism. He delights in the -philosophy of Locke and has little sense for Greek philosophy or for -the higher aspects of Greek literature. He is quite lacking in the -quality of imagination that is needful if one is to communicate with -what is above the ordinary rational level. So far from being capable of -high seriousness, he is scarcely capable of ordinary seriousness. And -so the nobility, elegance, imitation, and decorum that he is constantly -preaching have about them a taint of formalism. Perhaps this taint -appears most conspicuously in his conception of decorum. A man may be -willing to impose restrictions on his ordinary self--and every type of -decorum is restrictive--if he is asked to do so for some adequate end. -The end of the decorum that an Aristotle, for example, would impose is -that one may become more human and therefore, as he endeavors to show -in a highly positive fashion, happier. The only art and literature that -will please a man who has thus become human through the observance of -true decorum is an art and literature that are themselves human and -decorous. Voltaire for his part wishes to subject art and literature -to an elaborate set of restrictions in the name of decorum, but these -restrictions are not joined to any adequate end. The only reward he -holds out to those who observe all these restrictions is “the merit -of difficulty overcome.” At bottom, like so many of the Jesuits from -whom he received his education, he looks upon art as a game--a very -ingenious and complicated game. The French muse he compares to a -person executing a difficult clog dance on a tight rope, and he argues -from this comparison, not that the French muse should assume a less -constrained posture, but that she should on the contrary be exemplary -to the nations. No wonder the romanticists and even Dr. Johnson -demurred at Voltaire’s condemnation of Shakespeare in the name of this -type of decorum. - -Voltaire is therefore, in spite of all his dazzling gifts, one of -the most compromising advocates of classicism. Pope also had eminent -merits, but from the truly classical point of view he is about as -inadequate as Voltaire; and this is important to remember because -English romanticism tends to be all that is not Pope. The English -romanticists revolted especially from the poetic diction of which Pope -was one of the chief sources, and poetic diction, with its failure -to distinguish between nobility of language and the language of the -nobility, is only an aspect of artificial decorum. However, the revolt -from poetic diction and decorum in general is not the central aspect of -the great movement that resulted in the eclipse of the wit and man of -the world and in the emergence of the original genius. What the genius -wanted was spontaneity, and spontaneity, as he understood it, involves -a denial, not merely of decorum, but of something that, as I have said, -goes deeper than decorum--namely the doctrine of imitation. According -to Voltaire genius is only judicious imitation. According to Rousseau -the prime mark of genius is refusal to imitate. The movement away from -imitation, however, had already got well started before it thus came -to a picturesque head in the clash between Rousseau and Voltaire, and -if we wish to understand this movement we need to take a glance at its -beginnings--especially in England. - -There are reasons why this supposed opposition between imitation and -genius should have been felt in England more keenly than elsewhere. The -doctrine of imitation in its neo-classical form did not get established -there until about the time of Dryden. In the meanwhile England had had -a great creative literature in which the freedom and spontaneity of the -imagination had not been cramped by a too strict imitation of models. -Dryden himself, though he was doing more than any one else to promote -the new correctness that was coming in from France, felt that this -correctness was no equivalent for the Elizabethan inspiration. The -structure that he and his contemporaries were erecting might be more -regular, but lacked the boldness and originality of that reared by the -“giant race before the flood”: - - Our age was cultivated thus at length; - But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. - Our builders were with want of genius cursed; - The second temple was not like the first.[37] - -This contrast between the imitator and the inspired original was -developed by Addison in a paper (“Spectator,” 160) that was destined -to be used against the very school to which he himself belonged. -For Addison was in his general outlook a somewhat tame Augustan. -Nevertheless he exalts the “natural geniuses” who have something -“nobly wild and extravagant” in them above the geniuses who have been -“refined by conversation, reflection and the reading of the most polite -authors”; who have “formed themselves by rules and submitted the -greatness of their natural talents to the corrections and restraints of -art.” “The great danger in these latter kind of geniuses, is lest they -cramp their own abilities too much by imitation, and form themselves -altogether upon models, without giving full play to their own natural -parts. An imitation of the best authors is not to compare with a good -original; and I believe we may observe that very few writers make an -extraordinary figure in the world, who have not something in their way -of thinking or expressing themselves that is peculiar to them, and -entirely their own.” - -Another main influence that was making against the doctrine of -imitation was also largely of English origin. This was the idea of -progress through scientific observation and experiment. As a result -of this type of positivism, discovery was being added to discovery. -Science was kindling man’s imagination and opening up before him what -he really craves, the vista of an endless advance. Why should not -literature likewise do something new and original instead of sticking -forever in the same rut of imitation? In its Greek form the doctrine -of imitation was, as I have tried to show, not only flexible and -progressive, but in its own way, positive and experimental. But in -modern times the two main forms of imitation, the classical and the -Christian, have worked within the limits imposed by tradition and -traditional models. The imitation of models, the Christian imitation -of Christ, let us say, or the classical imitation of Horace, may -indeed be a very vital thing, the imitation of one soul by another -soul; but when carried out in this vital way, the two main forms of -imitation tend to clash, and the compromise between them, as I have -already said, resulted in a good deal of formalism. By its positive -and critical method science was undermining every traditional belief. -Both the Christian and the classical formalists would have been the -first to deny that the truths of imitation for which they stood could -be divorced from tradition and likewise put on a positive and critical -basis. The fact is indubitable in any case that the discrediting of -tradition has resulted in a progressive lapse from the religious and -the humanistic to the naturalistic level. An equally indubitable fact -is that scientific or rationalistic naturalism tended from the early -eighteenth century to produce emotional naturalism, and that both forms -of naturalism were hostile to the doctrine of imitation. - -The trend away from the doctrine of imitation towards emotional -naturalism finds revolutionary expression in the literary field in such -a work as Young’s “Conjectures on Original Composition” (1759). Addison -had asserted, as we have seen, the superiority of what is original in -a man, of what comes to him spontaneously, over what he acquires by -conscious effort and culture. Young, a personal friend of Addison’s, -develops this contrast between the “natural” and the “artificial” to -its extreme consequences. “Modern writers,” he says, “have a choice -to make. … They may soar in the regions of liberty, or move in the -soft fetters of easy imitation.” “An original may be said to be of a -vegetable nature; it rises spontaneously from the vital root of genius; -it grows, it is not made; imitations are often a sort of manufacture, -wrought up by those mechanics, art and labor, out of preëxistent -materials not their own.” “We may as well grow good by another’s -virtue, or fat by another’s food, as famous by another’s thought.” -One evidence that we are still living in the movement of which Young -is one of the initiators is that his treatise will not only seem to -most of us a very spirited piece of writing--that it certainly is--but -doctrinally sound. And yet it is only one of those documents very -frequent in literary history which lack intrinsic soundness, but which -can be explained if not justified as a recoil from an opposite extreme. -The unsoundness of Young’s work comes out clearly if one compares -it with the treatise on the “Sublime” attributed to Longinus which -is not a mere protest against a previous excess, but a permanently -acceptable treatment of the same problem of genius and inspiration. -Longinus exalts genius, but is at the same time regardful of culture -and tradition, and even emphasizes the relation between inspiration and -the imitation of models. Young insinuates, on the contrary, that one -is aided in becoming a genius by being brainless and ignorant. “Some -are pupils of nature only, nor go further to school.” “Many a genius -probably there has been which could neither write nor read.” It follows -almost inevitably from these premises that genius flourishes most in -the primitive ages of society before originality has been crushed -beneath the superincumbent weight of culture and critics have begun -their pernicious activities. Young did not take this step himself, but -it was promptly taken by others on the publication of the Ossianic -poems (1762). Ossian is at once added to the list of great originals -already enumerated by Addison--Homer, Pindar, the patriarchs of the -Old Testament and Shakespeare (whom Young like the later romanticists -opposes to Pope). “Poetry,” says Diderot, summing up a whole movement, -“calls for something enormous, barbaric and savage.” - -This exaltation of the virtues of the primitive ages is simply -the projection into a mythical past of a need that the man of the -eighteenth century feels in the present--the need to let himself -go. This is what he understands by his “return to nature.” A whole -revolution is implied in this reinterpretation of the word nature. -To follow nature in the classical sense is to imitate what is normal -and representative in man and so to become decorous. To be natural in -the new sense one must begin by getting rid of imitation and decorum. -Moreover, for the classicist, nature and reason are synonymous. The -primitivist, on the other hand, means by nature the spontaneous play -of impulse and temperament, and inasmuch as this liberty is hindered -rather than helped by reason, he inclines to look on reason, not as the -equivalent but as the opposite of nature. - -If one is to understand this development, one should note carefully -how certain uses of the word reason, not merely by the neo-classicists -but by the anti-traditionalists, especially in religion, tended to -produce this denial of reason. It is a curious fact that some of those -who were attacking the Christian religion in the name of reason, were -themselves aware that mere reason, whether one understood by the word -abstract reasoning or uninspired good sense, does not satisfy, that -in the long run man is driven either to rise higher or to sink lower -than reason. St. Evremond, for example, prays nature to deliver man -from the doubtful middle state in which she has placed him--either -to “lift him up to angelic radiance,” or else to “sink him to the -instinct of simple animals.”[38] Since the ascending path, the path -that led to angelic radiance, seemed to involve the acceptance of -a mass of obsolete dogma, man gradually inclined to sink below the -rational level and to seek to recover the “instinct of simple animals.” -Another and still more fundamental fact that some of the rationalists -perceived and that militated against their own position, is that the -dominant element in man is not reason, but imagination, or if one -prefers, the element of illusion. “Illusion,” said Voltaire himself, -“is the queen of the human heart.” The great achievement of tradition -at its best was to be at once a limit and a support to both reason -and imagination and so to unite them in a common allegiance. In the -new movement, at the same time that reason was being encouraged by -scientific method to rise up in revolt against tradition, imagination -was being fascinated and drawn to the naturalistic level by scientific -discovery and the vista of an endless advance that it opened up. A main -problem, therefore, for the student of this movement is to determine -what forms of imaginative activity are possible on the naturalistic -level. A sort of understanding was reached on this point by different -types of naturalists in the course of the eighteenth century. One -form of imagination, it was agreed, should be displayed in science, -another form in art and literature.[39] The scientific imagination -should be controlled by judgment and work in strict subordination to -the facts. In art and literature, on the other hand, the imagination -should be free. Genius and originality are indeed in strict ratio to -this freedom. “In the fairy land of fancy,” says Young, “genius may -wander wild; there it has a creative power, and may reign arbitrarily -over its own empire of chimeras.” (The empire of chimeras was later to -become the tower of ivory.) This sheer indiscipline of the literary -imagination might seem in contrast with the discipline of the -scientific imagination an inferiority; but such was not the view of the -partisans of original genius. Kant, indeed, who was strongly influenced -in his “Critique of Æsthetic Judgment” by these English theorists,[40] -inclined to deny genius to the man of science for the very reason that -his imagination is so strictly controlled. The fact would seem to be -that a great scientist, a Newton let us say, has as much right to be -accounted a genius as Shakespeare. The inferiority of the genius of a -Newton compared with that of a Shakespeare lies in a certain coldness. -Scientific genius is thus cold because it operates in a region less -relevant to man than poetic genius; it is, in Bagehot’s phrase, more -remote from the “hearth of the soul.” - -The scientific and the literary imagination are indeed not quite so -sharply contrasted by most of the theorists as might be inferred -from what I have said; most of them do not admit that the literary -imagination should be entirely free to wander in its own “empire of -chimeras.” Even literary imagination, they maintain, should in some -measure be under the surveillance of judgment or taste. One should -observe, however, that the judgment or taste that is supposed to -control or restrict genius is not associated with the imagination. -On the contrary, imagination is associated entirely with the element -of novelty in things, which means, in the literary domain, with the -expansive eagerness of a man to get his own uniqueness uttered. The -genius for the Greek, let us remind ourselves, was not the man who was -in this sense unique, but the man who perceived the universal; and as -the universal can be perceived only with the aid of the imagination, -it follows that genius may be defined as imaginative perception of the -universal. The universal thus conceived not only gives a centre and -purpose to the activity of the imagination, but sets bounds to the free -expansion of temperament and impulse, to what came to be known in the -eighteenth century as nature. - -Kant, who denies genius to the man of science on grounds I have already -mentioned, is unable to associate genius in art or literature with this -strict discipline of the imagination to a purpose. The imagination -must be free and must, he holds, show this freedom not by working -but by playing. At the same time Kant had the cool temper of a man -of the Enlightenment, and looked with the utmost disapproval on the -aberrations that had marked in Germany the age of original genius (_die -Geniezeit_). He was not in the new sense of the word nor indeed in any -sense, an enthusiast. And so he wished the reason, or judgment, to -keep control over the imagination without disturbing its free play; -art is to have a purpose which is at the same time not a purpose. The -distinctions by which he works out the supposed relationship between -judgment and imagination are at once difficult and unreal. One can -indeed put one’s finger here more readily perhaps than elsewhere on the -central impotence of the whole Kantian system. Once discredit tradition -and outer authority and then set up as a substitute a reason that is -divorced from the imagination and so lacks the support of supersensuous -insight, and reason will prove unable to maintain its hegemony. When -the imagination has ceased to pull in accord with the reason in the -service of a reality that is set above them both, it is sure to become -the accomplice of expansive impulse, and mere reason is not strong -enough to prevail over this union of imagination and desire. Reason -needs some driving power behind it, a driving power that, when working -in alliance with the imagination, it gets from insight. To suppose -that man will long rest content with mere naked reason as his guide -is to forget that “illusion is the queen of the human heart”; it is -to revive the stoical error. Schiller, himself a Kantian, felt this -rationalistic rigor and coldness of his master, and so sought, while -retaining the play theory of art, to put behind the cold reason of -Kant the driving power it lacked; for this driving power he looked not -to a supersensuous reality, not to insight in short, but to emotion. -He takes appropriately the motto for his “Æsthetic Letters” from -Rousseau: _Si c’est la raison qui fait l’homme, c’est le sentiment qui -le conduit_. He retains Kant’s play theory of art without even so much -offset to this play as is implied in Kant’s “purposiveness without -purpose.” The nobility of Schiller’s intentions is beyond question. -At the same time, by encouraging the notion that it is possible to -escape from neo-classical didacticism only by eliminating masculine -purpose from art, he opens the way for the worst perversions of the -æsthete, above all for the divorce of art from ethical reality. In art, -according to Schiller, both imagination and feeling should be free and -spontaneous, and the result of all this freedom, as he sees it, will be -perfectly “ideal.” His suspicion of a purpose is invincible. As soon as -anything has a purpose it ceases to be æsthetic and in the same measure -suffers a loss of dignity. Thus the æsthetic moment of the lion, he -says, is when he roars not with any definite design, but out of sheer -lustiness, and for the pure pleasure of roaring. - -One may assume safely the æsthetic attitude, or what amounts to the -same thing, allow one’s self to be guided by feeling, only on the -assumption that feeling is worthy of trust. As appears in the very -motto he took for his “Æsthetic Letters” Schiller was helped to this -faith in man’s native goodness by Rousseau. We need to pause for a -moment at this point and consider the background of this belief which -finds not only in Schiller but in Rousseau himself, with whom it is -usually associated, a rather late expression. The movement that took -its rise in the eighteenth century involves, we should recollect, a -break not with one but with two traditions--the classical and the -Christian. If the plea for genius and originality is to be largely -explained as a protest against the mechanical imitation and artificial -decorum of a certain type of classicist, the assertion of man’s natural -goodness is to be understood rather as a rebound from the doctrine of -total depravity that was held by the more austere type of Christian. -This doctrine had even in the early centuries of the faith awakened -certain protests like that of Pelagius, but for an understanding of -the Rousseauistic protest one does not need to go behind the great -deistic movement of the early eighteenth century. God, instead of -being opposed to nature, is conceived by the deist as a power that -expresses his goodness and loveliness through nature. The oppressive -weight of fear that the older theology had laid upon the human spirit -is thus gradually lifted. Man begins to discover harmonies instead -of discords in himself and outer nature. He not only sees virtue -in instinct but inclines to turn virtue itself into a “sense,” or -instinct. And this means in practice to put emotional expansion in the -place of spiritual concentration at the basis of life and morals. In -studying this drift towards an æsthetic or sentimental morality one -may most conveniently take one’s point of departure in certain English -writers of deistic tendency, especially in Shaftesbury and his disciple -Hutcheson. Considered purely as an initiator, Shaftesbury is probably -more important than Rousseau. His influence ramifies out in every -direction, notably into Germany. - -The central achievement of Shaftesbury from a purely psychological -point of view may be said to be his transformation of conscience from -an inner check into an expansive emotion. He is thus enabled to set -up an æsthetic substitute not merely for traditional religion but for -traditional humanism. He undermines insidiously decorum, the central -doctrine of the classicist, at the very time that he seems to be -defending it. For decorum also implies a control upon the expansive -instincts of human nature, and Shaftesbury is actually engaged in -rehabilitating “nature,” and insinuating that it does not need any -control. He attains this expansiveness by putting æsthetic in the -place of spiritual perception, and so merging more or less completely -the good and the true with the beautiful. He thus points the way very -directly to Rousseau’s rejection of both inner and outer control -in the name of man’s natural goodness. Once accept Shaftesbury’s -transformation of conscience and one is led almost inevitably to look -on everything that is expansive as natural or vital and on everything -that restricts expansion as conventional or artificial. Villers wrote -to Madame de Staël (4 May, 1803): “The fundamental and creative idea -of all your work has been to show primitive, incorruptible, naïve, -passionate nature in conflict with the barriers and shackles of -conventional life. … Note that this is also the guiding idea of the -author of ‘Werther.’” This contrast between nature and convention is -indeed almost the whole of Rousseauism. In permitting his expansive -impulses to be disciplined by either humanism or religion man has -fallen away from nature much as in the old theology he has fallen -away from God, and the famous “return to nature” means in practice -the emancipation of the ordinary or temperamental self that had been -thus artificially controlled. This throwing off of the yoke of both -Christian and classical discipline in the name of temperament is the -essential aspect of the movement in favor of original genius. The -genius does not look to any pattern that is set above his ordinary -spontaneous ego and imitate it. On the contrary, he attains to the -self-expression that other men, intimidated by convention, weakly -forego. - -In thus taking a stand for self-expression, the original genius is in -a sense on firm ground--at least so far as the mere rationalist or -the late and degenerate classicist is concerned. No conventions are -final, no rules can set arbitrary limits to creation. Reality cannot be -locked up in any set of formulæ. The element of change and novelty in -things, as the romanticists are never tired of repeating, is at once -vital and inexhaustible. Wherever we turn, we encounter, as a romantic -authority, Jacob Boehme, declares, “abysmal, unsearchable and infinite -multiplicity.” Perhaps not since the beginning of the world have two -men or indeed two leaves or two blades of grass been exactly alike. -Out of a thousand men shaving, as Dr. Johnson himself remarked, no -two will shave in just the same way. A person carries his uniqueness -even into his thumbprint--as a certain class in the community has -learned to its cost. But though all things are ineffably different -they are at the same time ineffably alike. And this oneness in things -is, no less than the otherwiseness, a matter of immediate perception. -This universal implication of the one in the many is found even more -marked than elsewhere in the heart of the individual. Each man has -his idiosyncrasy (literally his “private mixture”). But in addition -to his complexion, his temperamental or private self, every man has -a self that he possesses in common with other men. Even the man who -is most filled with his own uniqueness, or “genius,” a Rousseau, for -example, assumes this universal self in every word he utters. “Jove -nods to Jove behind us as we talk.” The word character, one may note, -is ambiguous, inasmuch as it may refer either to the idiosyncratic or -to the universal human element in a man’s dual nature. For example, an -original genius like William Blake not only uses the word character -in a different sense from Aristotle--he cannot even understand the -Aristotelian usage. “Aristotle,” he complains, “says characters are -either good or bad; now Goodness or Badness has nothing to do with -Character. An apple tree, a pear tree, a horse, a lion are Characters; -but a good apple tree or a bad is an apple tree still, etc.” But -character as Aristotle uses the word implies something that man -possesses and that a horse or tree does not possess--the power namely -to deliberate and choose. A man has a good or bad character, he is -ethical or unethical, as one may say from the Greek word for character -in this sense (ἦθος), according to the quality of his choice as it -appears in what he actually does. This distinction between a man’s -private, peculiar character (χαρακτήρ) and the character he possesses -when judged with reference to something more general than his own -complexion is very similar to the French distinction between the _sens -propre_ and the _sens commun_. - -The general sense or norm that is opposed to mere temperament and -impulse may rest upon the ethos of a particular time and country--the -traditional habits and customs that the Rousseauist is wont to dismiss -as “artificial”--or it may rest in varying degrees upon immediate -perception. For example, the Ismene and Antigone of Sophocles are -both ethical; but Ismene would abide by the law of the state, whereas -Antigone opposes to this law something still more universal--the -“unwritten laws of heaven.” This insight of Antigone into a moral order -that is set not only above her ordinary self but above the convention -of her time and country is something very immediate, something -achieved, as I shall try to show more fully later, with the aid of the -imagination. - -It is scarcely necessary to add that such a perfect example of the -ethical imagination as one finds in Antigone--the imagination that -works concentric with the human law--is rare. In actual life for -one Antigone who obeys the “unwritten laws of heaven” there will -be a thousand Ismenes who will be guided in their moral choices by -the law of the community. This law, the convention of a particular -place and time, is always but a very imperfect image, a mere shadow -indeed of the unwritten law which being above the ordinary rational -level is, in a sense to be explained later, infinite and incapable -of final formulation. And yet men are forced if only on practical -grounds to work out some approximation to this law as a barrier to the -unchained appetites of the individual. The elements that enter into -any particular attempt to circumscribe the individual in the interests -of the community are very mixed and in no small measure relative. Yet -the things that any group of men have come together about--their -conventions in the literal meaning of the word--even the tabus of a -savage tribe, are sure to reflect, however inadequately, the element -of oneness in man, the element which is opposed to expansive impulse, -and which is no less real, no less a matter of immediate experience, -than the element of irreducible difference. The general sense therefore -should never be sacrificed lightly to the sense of the individual. -Tabu, however inferior it may be to insight, deserves to rank higher -after all than mere temperament.[41] - -The original genius proceeds upon the opposite assumption. Everything -that limits temperamental expansion is dismissed as either artificial -or mechanical; everything on the contrary that makes for the -emancipation of temperament, and so for variety and difference, he -welcomes as vital, dynamic, creative. Now, speaking not metaphysically -but practically and experimentally, man may, as I have said, follow two -main paths: he may develop his ethical self--the self that lays hold -of unity--or he may put his main emphasis on the element within him -and without him that is associated with novelty and change. In direct -proportion as he turns his attention to the infinite manifoldness of -things he experiences wonder; if on the other hand he attends to the -unity that underlies the manifoldness and that likewise transcends him, -he experiences awe. As a man grows religious, awe comes more and more -to take the place in him of wonder. The humanist is less averse from -the natural order and its perpetual gushing forth of novelties than the -man who is religious, yet even the humanist refuses to put his final -emphasis on wonder (his motto is rather _nil admirari_). To illustrate -concretely, Dr. Johnson can scarcely conceal his disdain for the -wonderful, but being a genuinely religious spirit, is very capable of -awe. Commenting on Yalden’s line - - Awhile th’ Almighty wondering stood, - -Dr. Johnson remarks: “He ought to have remembered that Infinite -Knowledge can never wonder. All wonder is the effect of novelty upon -Ignorance.” Granted the justness of the remark, Johnson seems inclined -at times to forget how wide is the gap in this respect between us -and the Almighty and therefore to be unduly hostile to the element -of wonder. To take the opposite case, it is not easy to discover in -either the personality or writings of Poe an atom of awe or reverence. -On the other hand he both experiences wonder and seeks in his art -to be a pure wondersmith. It is especially important to determine a -man’s attitude towards himself in this matter of awe and wonder, in -other words to determine whether he is taken up first of all with that -element in his own nature which makes him incomprehensibly like other -men or with that element which makes him incomprehensibly different -from them. A man, the wise have always insisted, should look with -reverence but not with wonder on himself. Rousseau boasts that if not -better than other men, he is at least different. By this gloating -sense of his own otherwiseness he may be said to have set the tone for -a whole epoch. Chateaubriand, for instance, is quite overcome by his -own uniqueness and wonderfulness. At the most ordinary happenings he -exclaims, as Sainte-Beuve points out, that such things happen only to -him. Hugo again is positively stupefied at the immensity of his own -genius. The theatricality that one feels in so much of the art of this -period arises from the eagerness of the genius to communicate to others -something of the amazement that he feels at himself. René’s first -concern is to inspire wonder even in the women who love him. “Céluta -felt that she was going to fall upon the bosom of this man as one falls -into an abyss.” - -In thus putting such an exclusive emphasis on wonder the Rousseauistic -movement takes on a regressive character. For if life begins in -wonder it culminates in awe. To put “the budding rose above the rose -full-blown” may do very well for a mood, but as an habitual attitude -it implies that one is more interested in origins than in ends; and -this means in practice to look backward and downward instead of forward -and up. The conscious analysis that is needed if one is to establish -orderly sequences and relationships and so work out a kingdom of ends -is repudiated by the Rousseauist because it diminishes wonder, because -it interferes with the creative impulse of genius as it gushes up -spontaneously from the depths of the unconscious. The whole movement is -filled with the praise of ignorance and of those who still enjoy its -inappreciable advantages--the savage, the peasant and above all the -child. The Rousseauist may indeed be said to have discovered the poetry -of childhood of which only traces can be found in the past, but at what -would seem at times a rather heavy sacrifice of rationality. Rather -than consent to have the bloom taken off things by analysis one should, -as Coleridge tells us, _sink back_ to the devout state of childlike -wonder. However, to grow ethically is not to sink back but to struggle -painfully forward. To affirm the contrary is to set up the things that -are below the ordinary rational level as a substitute for the things -that are above it, and at the same time to proclaim one’s inability to -mature. The romanticist, it is true, is wont to oppose to the demand -for maturity Christ’s praise of the child. But Christ evidently praises -the child not because of his capacity for wonder but because of his -freedom from sin, and it is of the essence of Rousseauism to deny the -very existence of sin--at least in the Christian sense of the word. -One may also read in the New Testament that when one has ceased to be -a child one should give up childish things, and this is a saying that -no primitivist, so far as I am aware, has ever quoted. On the contrary, -he is ready to assert that what comes to the child spontaneously is -superior to the deliberate moral effort of the mature man. The speeches -of all the sages are, according to Maeterlinck, outweighed by the -unconscious wisdom of the passing child. Wordsworth hails a child of -six as “Mighty Prophet! Seer blest!” (It is only fair to Coleridge -to say that he refused to follow Wordsworth into this final abyss of -absurdity.[42]) In much the same way Hugo pushes his adoration of -the child to the verge of what has been termed “solemn silliness” -(_niaiserie solennelle_). - -To set up the spontaneity of the child as a substitute for insight, -to identify wonder with awe, romance with religion, is to confuse the -very planes of being. There would appear to be a confusion of this kind -in what Carlyle takes to be his own chief discovery, in his “natural -supernaturalism.”[43] The natural order we must grant Carlyle is -unfathomable, but it is not therefore awful, only wonderful. A movement -of charity belongs as Pascal says to an entirely different order.[44] - -The spiritual order to which Pascal refers lifts a man so far as he -perceives it out of his ordinary self and draws him to an ethical -centre. But the Rousseauist tends, as I have said, to repudiate -the very idea of an ethical centre along with the special forms in -which it had got itself embedded. Every attempt, whether humanistic -or religious, to set up some such centre, to oppose a unifying and -centralizing principle to expansive impulse, seems to him arbitrary -and artificial. He does not discriminate between the ethical norm or -centre that a Sophocles grasps intuitively and the centrality that the -pseudo-classicist hopes to achieve by mechanical imitation. He argues -from his underlying assumption that the principle of variation is alone -vital, that one’s genius and originality are in pretty direct ratio -to one’s eccentricity in the literal meaning of the word; and he is -therefore ready to affirm his singularity or difference in the face of -whatever happens to be established. This attitude, it is worth noting, -is quite unlike that of the humorist in the old English sense of the -word, who indulges his bent and is at the same time quite unconcerned -with any central model that he should imitate and with reference to -which he should discipline his oddities. The idiosyncrasy of the -Rousseauist is not, like that of the humorist, genial, but defiant. -He is strangely self-conscious in his return to the unconscious. In -everything, from his vocabulary to the details of his dress, he is -eager to emphasize his departure from the norm. Hence the persistent -pose and theatricality in so many of the leaders of this movement, in -Rousseau himself, for instance, or in Chateaubriand and Byron. As for -the lesser figures in the movement their “genius” is often chiefly -displayed in their devices for calling attention to themselves as the -latest and most marvellous births of time; it is only one aspect in -short of an art in which the past century, whatever its achievement in -the other arts, has easily surpassed all its predecessors--the art of -advertising. - -One needs always to return, however, if one is to understand the -romantic notion of genius, to a consideration of the pseudo-classic -decorum against which it is a protest. The gentleman or man of the -world (_honnête homme_) was not, like the original genius, anxious -to advertise himself, to call attention to his own special note -of originality, since his primary concern was with an entirely -different problem, with the problem, namely, not of expressing but -of humanizing himself; and he could humanize himself, he felt, only -by constant reference to the accepted standard of what the normal -man should be. He refused to “pride himself on anything”; he was -fearful of over-emphasis, because the first of virtues in his eyes -was a sense of proportion. The total symmetry of life to which the -best type of classicist refers back his every impulse, he apprehends -intuitively with the aid of his imagination. The symmetry to which the -pseudo-classicist refers back his impulses has ceased to be imaginative -and has become a mere conformity to an outer code or even to the rules -of etiquette; and so, instead of a deep imaginative insight, he gets -mere elegance or polish. The unity that a purely external decorum of -this kind imposes on life degenerates into a tiresome sameness. It -seems an unwarranted denial of the element of wonder and surprise. -“Boredom was born one day of uniformity,” said La Motte Houdard, who -was himself a pseudo-classicist; whereas variety as everybody knows -is the spice of life. The romanticist would break up the smooth and -tiresome surface of artificial decorum by the pursuit of strangeness. -If he can only get his thrill he cares little whether it is probable, -whether it bears any relation, that is, to normal human experience. -This sacrifice of the probable to the surprising appears, as I said -at the outset, in all types of romanticism--whether of action or -thought or feeling. The genuine classicist always puts his main -stress on design or structure; whereas the main quest of every type -of romanticist is rather for the intense and vivid and arresting -detail. Take, for instance, the intellectual romanticism that prevailed -especially in the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. In -the “witty and conceited” poets of this period the intellect is engaged -in a more or less irresponsible vagabondage with the imagination as its -free accomplice. The conceits by which a poet of this type displays his -“ingenuity” (genius) are not structural, are not, that is, referred -back to any centre. They stand forth each separately and sharply from -the surface of the style (hence known to the French as “points”), and -so arrest the reader by their novelty. Their rareness and preciousness, -however, are intended to startle the intellect alone. They do not -have and are not intended to have any power of sensuous suggestion. -The Rousseauistic romanticist, on the other hand, so far from being -“metaphysical,” strives to be concrete even at the risk of a certain -materialism of style, of turning his metaphors into mere images. Like -the intellectual romanticist, though in a different way, he wishes to -break up the smooth and monotonous surface of life and style, and so he -sets up the cult of the picturesque. To understand this cult one needs -to remember the opposite extreme of artificial symmetry. One needs to -recall, for example, the neo-classicist who complained of the stars -in heaven because they were not arranged in symmetrical patterns, or -various other neo-classicists who attacked mountains because of their -rough and irregular shapes, because of their refusal to submit to the -rule and compass. When beauty is conceived in so mechanical a fashion -some one is almost certain to wish to “add strangeness” to it. - -The cult of the picturesque is closely associated with the cult of -local color. Here as elsewhere romantic genius is, in contradistinction -to classical genius which aims at the “grandeur of generality,” the -genius of wonder and surprise. According to Buffon, who offers the -rare spectacle of a man of science who is at the same time a theorist -of the grand manner, genius is shown in the architectonic gift--in -the power so to unify a subject as to keep its every detail in proper -subordination to the whole. Any mere wantoning of the imagination -in the pursuit of either the precious or the picturesque is to be -severely repressed if one is to attain to the grandeur of generality. -Buffon is truly classic in relating genius to design. Unfortunately -he verges towards the pseudo-classic in his distrust of color, of the -precise word and the vivid descriptive epithet. The growing verbal -squeamishness that so strikes one towards the end of the neo-classic -period is one outcome of artificial decorum, of confusing nobility of -language with the language of the nobility. There was an increasing -fear of the trivial word that might destroy the illusion of the grand -manner, and also of the technical term that should be too suggestive -of specialization. All terms were to be avoided that were not readily -intelligible to a lady or gentleman in the drawing-room. And so it -came to pass that by the end of the eighteenth century the grand -manner, or elevated style, had come to be largely an art of ingenious -circumlocution, and Buffon gives some countenance to this conception of -classic dignity and representativeness when he declares that one should -describe objects “only by the most general terms.” At all events the -reply of the romantic genius to this doctrine is the demand for local -color, for the concrete and picturesque phrase. The general truth at -which the classicist aims the Rousseauist dismisses as identical with -the gray and the academic, and bends all his efforts to the rendering -of the vivid and unique detail. Of the readiness of the romantic genius -to show (or one is tempted to say) to advertise his originality by -trampling verbal decorum under foot along with every other kind of -decorum, I shall have more to say later. He is ready to employ not only -the homely and familiar word that the pseudo-classicist had eschewed -as “low,” but words so local and technical as to be unintelligible to -ordinary readers. Chateaubriand deals so specifically with the North -American Indian and his environment that the result, according to -Sainte-Beuve, is a sort of “tattooing” of his style. Hugo bestows a -whole dictionary of architectural terms upon the reader in his “Nôtre -Dame,” and of nautical terms in his “Toilers of the Sea.” In order to -follow some of the passages in Balzac’s “César Birotteau,” one needs -to be a lawyer or a professional accountant, and it has been said that -in order to do justice to a certain description in Zola one would need -to be a pork-butcher. In this movement towards a highly specialized -vocabulary one should note a coöperation, as so often elsewhere, -between the two wings of the naturalistic movement--the scientific and -the emotional. The Rousseauist is, like the scientist, a specialist--he -specializes in his own sensations. He goes in quest of emotional -thrills for their own sake, just as Napoleon’s generals, according to -Sainte-Beuve, waged war without any ulterior aim but for the sheer lust -of conquest. The vivid images and picturesque details are therefore -not sufficiently structural; each one tends to thrust itself forward -without reference to the whole and to demand attention for its own sake. - -The pursuit of the unrelated thrill without reference to its -motivation or probability leads in the romantic movement to a sort of -descent--often, it is true, a rapturous and lyrical descent--from the -dramatic to the melodramatic. It is possible to trace this one-sided -emphasis on wonder not merely in vocabulary but in the increasing -resort to the principle of contrast. One suspects, for example, that -Rousseau exaggerates the grotesqueness of his youthful failure as a -musical composer at Lausanne in order that his success in the same -rôle before the king and all the ladies of the court at Versailles may -“stick more fiery off.” The contrast that Chateaubriand establishes -between the two banks of the Mississippi at the beginning of his -“Atala” is so complete as to put some strain on verisimilitude. One -may note in this same description, as a somewhat different way of -sacrificing the probable to the picturesque, the bears drunk on wild -grapes and reeling on the branches of the elms. To prove that it was -possible on some particular occasion to look down the vista of a forest -glade on the lower Mississippi and see it closed by a drunken bear does -not meet the difficulty at all. For art has to do, as was remarked long -ago, not with the possible but the probable; and a bear in this posture -is a possible but scarcely a probable bear. - -To return to the principle of contrast: Hugo dilates upon his puniness -as an infant (“abandoned by everybody, even by his mother”) in order -to make his later achievement seem still more stupendous.[45] The -use of the antithesis as the auxiliary of surprise, the abrupt and -thrilling passage from light to shade or the contrary, finds perhaps -its culminating expression in Hugo. A study of this one figure as it -appears in his words and ideas, in his characters and situations and -subjects, would show that he is the most melodramatic genius for whom -high rank has ever been claimed in literature. The suddenness of Jean -Valjean’s transformation from a convict into a saint may serve as a -single instance of Hugo’s readiness to sacrifice verisimilitude to -surprise in his treatment of character. - -Closely allied to the desire to break up the monotonous surface of -“good form” by the pointed and picturesque style in writing is the rise -of the pointed and picturesque style in dress. A man may advertise -his genius and originality (in the romantic sense of these terms) by -departing from the accepted modes of costume as well as from the -accepted modes of speech. Gautier’s scarlet waistcoat at the first -performance of Hernani is of the same order as his flamboyant epithets, -his riot of local color, and was at least as effective in achieving -the main end of his life--to be, in his own phrase, the “terror of the -sleek, baldheaded bourgeois.” In assuming the Armenian garb to the -astonishment of the rustics of Motiers-Travers, Rousseau anticipates -not merely Gautier but innumerable other violators of conventional -correctness: here as elsewhere he deserves to rank as the classic -instance, one is tempted to say, of romantic eccentricity. La Bruyère, -an exponent of the traditional good-breeding against which Rousseauism -is a protest, says that the gentleman allows himself to be dressed by -his tailor. He wishes to be neither ahead of the mode nor behind it, -being reluctant as he is in all things to oppose his private sense to -the general sense. His point of view in the matter of dress is not so -very remote from that of a genuine classicism, whereas the enthusiast -who recently went about the streets of New York (until taken in by -the police) garbed as a contemporary of Pericles is no less plainly a -product of Rousseauistic revolt. - -Chateaubriand’s relation to Rousseauism in this matter calls for -special comment. He encouraged, and to some extent held, the belief -that to show genius and originality one must be irregular and -tempestuous in all things, even in the arrangement of one’s hair. At -the same time he preached reason. His heart, in short, was romantic, -his head classical. Both as a classicist and a romanticist he was ready -to repudiate on the one hand his master Rousseau, and on the other -his own disciples. As a romantic genius he wished to regard himself -as unique and so unrelated to Rousseau. At the same time he also -looked upon it as a sort of insolence for any of his own followers to -aspire to such a lonely preëminence in grief as René. As a classicist -he saw that great art aims at the normal and the representative, and -that it is therefore absurd for people to pattern themselves on such -morbid and exceptional characters as René and Childe Harold. Most -of the romanticists indeed showed themselves very imitative even in -their attempts at uniqueness, and the result was a second or third -hand, or as one is tempted to say, a stale eccentricity. In their mere -following of the mode many of the French romanticists of 1830 were -ready to impose a painful discipline upon themselves[46] in order to -appear abnormal, in order, for instance, to acquire a livid Byronic -complexion. Some of those who wished to seem elegiac like Lamartine -rather than to emulate the violent and histrionic revolt of the Conrads -and Laras actually succeeded, we are told, in giving themselves -consumption (hence the epithet _école poitrinaire_). - -In outer and visible freakishness the French romanticists of 1830 -probably bore away the palm, though in inner and spiritual remoteness -from normal human experience they can scarcely vie with the early -German romanticists. And this is doubtless due to the fact that in -France there was a more definite outer standard from which to advertise -their departure, and also to the fact that the revolt against this -standard was so largely participated in by the painters and by writers -like Gautier who were also interested in painting. Chateaubriand -writes of the romantic painters (and the passage will also serve to -illustrate his attitude towards his own disciples): “[These artists] -rig themselves up as comic sketches, as grotesques, as caricatures. -Some of them wear frightful mustaches, one would suppose that they -are going forth to conquer the world--their brushes are halberds, -their paint-scratchers sabres; others have enormous beards and hair -that puffs out or hangs down their shoulders; they smoke a cigar -volcanically. These cousins of the rainbow, to use a phrase of our old -Régnier, have their heads filled with deluges, seas, rivers, forests, -cataracts, tempests, or it may be with slaughters, tortures and -scaffolds. One finds among them human skulls, foils, mandolins, helmets -and dolmans. … They aim to form a separate species between the ape and -the satyr; they give you to understand that the secrecy of the studio -has its dangers and that there is no safety for the models.” - -These purely personal eccentricities that so marked the early stages in -the warfare between the Bohemian and the philistine have as a matter -of fact diminished in our own time. Nowadays a man of the distinction -of Disraeli or even of Bulwer-Lytton[47] would scarcely affect, as -they did, the flamboyant style in dress. But the underlying failure -to discriminate between the odd and the original has persisted and has -worked out into even extremer consequences. One may note, as I have -said, even in the early figures in the movement a tendency to play to -the gallery, a something that suggests the approach of the era of the -lime-light and the big headline. Rousseau himself has been called the -father of yellow journalists. There is an unbroken development from -the early exponents of original genius down to cubists, futurists and -post-impressionists and the corresponding schools in literature. The -partisans of expression as opposed to form in the eighteenth century -led to the fanatics of expression in the nineteenth and these have -led to the maniacs of expression of the twentieth. The extremists in -painting have got so far beyond Cézanne, who was regarded not long ago -as one of the wildest of innovators, that Cézanne is, we are told, “in -a fair way to achieve the unhappy fate of becoming a classic.” Poe -was fond of quoting a saying of Bacon’s that “there is no excellent -beauty that hath not some strangeness in the proportion.” This saying -became known in France through Baudelaire’s rendering of Poe and was -often ascribed to Poe himself. It was taken to mean that the stranger -one became the nearer one was getting to perfect beauty. And if we -grant this view of beauty we must admit that some of the decadents -succeeded in becoming very beautiful indeed. But the more the element -of proportion in beauty is sacrificed to strangeness the more the -result will seem to the normal man to be, not beauty at all, but rather -an esoteric cult of ugliness. The romantic genius therefore denounces -the normal man as a philistine and at the same time, since he cannot -please him, seeks at least to shock him and so capture his attention -by the very violence of eccentricity. - -The saying I have quoted from Bacon is perhaps an early example of the -inner alliance between things that superficially often seem remote--the -scientific spirit and the spirit of romance. Scientific discovery has -given a tremendous stimulus to wonder and curiosity, has encouraged a -purely exploratory attitude towards life and raised an overwhelming -prepossession in favor of the new as compared with the old. Baconian -and Rousseauist evidently come together by their primary emphasis on -novelty. The movement towards a more and more eccentric conception -of art and literature has been closely allied in practice with the -doctrine of progress--and that from the very dawn of the so-called -Quarrel of Ancients and Moderns. It is scarcely possible to exaggerate -the havoc that has been wrought by the transfer of the belief that -the latest thing is the best--a belief that is approximately true -of automobiles--from the material order to an entirely different -realm.[48] The very heart of the classical message, one cannot repeat -too often, is that one should aim first of all not to be original, -but to be human, and that to be human one needs to look up to a sound -model and imitate it. The imposition of form and proportion upon one’s -expansive impulses which results from this process of imitation is, -in the true sense of that much abused word, culture. Genuine culture -is difficult and disciplinary. The mediation that it involves between -the conflicting claims of form and expression requires the utmost -contention of spirit. We have here a clue to the boundless success -of the Rousseauistic doctrine of spontaneity, of the assertion that -genius resides in the region of the primitive and unconscious and is -hindered rather than helped by culture. It is easier to be a genius -on Rousseauistic lines than to be a man on the terms imposed by the -classicist. There is a fatal facility about creation when its quality -is not tested by some standard set above the creator’s temperament; -and the same fatal facility appears in criticism when the critic does -not test creation by some standard set above both his own temperament -and that of the creator. The romantic critic as a matter of fact -confines his ambition to receiving so keen an impression from genius, -conceived as something purely temperamental, that when this creative -expression is passed through his temperament it will issue forth as a -fresh expression. Taste, he holds, will thus tend to become one with -genius, and criticism, instead of being cold and negative like that of -the neo-classicist, will itself grow creative.[49] But the critic who -does not get beyond this stage will have gusto, zest, relish, what you -will, he will not have taste. For taste involves a difficult mediation -between the element of uniqueness in both critic and creator and that -which is representative and human. Once eliminate this human standard -that is set above the temperament of the creator and make of the critic -in turn a mere pander to “genius” and it is hard to see what measure -of a man’s excellence is left save his intoxication with himself; and -this measure would scarcely seem to be trustworthy. “Every ass that’s -romantic,” says Wolseley in his Preface to “Valentinian” (1686) -“believes he’s inspired.” - -An important aspect of the romantic theory of genius remains to be -considered. This theory is closely associated in its rise and growth -with the theory of the master faculty or ruling passion. A man can -do that for which he has a genius without effort, whereas no amount -of effort can avail to give a man that for which he has no native -aptitude.[50] Buffon affirmed in opposition to this view that genius is -only a capacity for taking pains or, as an American recently put it, is -ten per cent inspiration and ninety per cent perspiration. This notion -of genius not only risks running counter to the observed facts as to -the importance of the native gift but it does not bring out as clearly -as it might the real point at issue. Even though genius were shown -to be ninety per cent inspiration a man should still, the classicist -would insist, fix his attention on the fraction that is within his -power. Thus Boileau says in substance at the outset of his “Art of -Poetry” that a poet needs to be born under a propitious star. Genius -is indispensable, and not merely genius in general but genius for the -special kind of poetry in which he is to excel. Yet granting all this, -he says to the poetical aspirant, bestir yourself! The mystery of grace -will always be recognized in any view of life that gets at all beneath -the surface. Yet it is still the better part to turn to the feasibility -of works. The view of genius as merely a temperamental overflow is as -a matter of fact only a caricature of the doctrine of grace. It suits -the spiritual indolence of the creator who seeks to evade the more -difficult half of his problem--which is not merely to create but to -humanize his creation. Hawthorne, for example, is according to Mr. -Brownell, too prone (except in the “Scarlet Letter”) to get away from -the clear sunlight of normal human experience into a region of somewhat -crepuscular symbolism, and this is because he yielded too complacently -and fatalistically to what he conceived to be his genius. The theory -of genius is perhaps the chief inheritance of the New England -transcendentalists from romanticism. Hawthorne was more on his guard -against the extreme implications of the theory than most other members -of this group. It remains to be seen how much the exaltation of genius -and depreciation of culture that marks one whole side of Emerson will -in the long run tell against his reputation. The lesser New England men -showed a rare incapacity to distinguish between originality and mere -freakishness either in themselves or in others. - -It is fair to say that in lieu of the discipline of culture the -romantic genius has often insisted on the discipline of technique; -and this has been especially true in a country like France with its -persistent tradition of careful workmanship. Gautier, for example, -would have one’s “floating dream sealed”[51] in the hardest and most -resisting material, that can only be mastered by the perfect craftsman; -and he himself, falling into a confusion of the arts, tries to display -such a craftsmanship by painting and carving with words. Flaubert, -again, refines upon the technique of writing to a point where it -becomes not merely a discipline but a torture. But if a man is to -be a romantic genius in the fullest sense he must, it should seem, -repudiate even the discipline of technique as well as the discipline of -culture in favor of an artless spontaneity. For after all the genius -is only the man who retains the virtues of the child, and technical -proficiency is scarcely to be numbered among these virtues. The German -romanticists already prefer the early Italian painters because of their -naïveté and divine awkwardness to the later artiste who had a more -conscious mastery of their material. The whole Pre-Raphaelite movement -is therefore only one aspect of Rousseau’s return to nature. To later -primitivists the early Italians themselves seem far too deliberate. -They would recover the spontaneity displayed in the markings on -Alaskan totem poles or in the scratchings of the caveman on the -flint. A prerequisite to pure genius, if we are to judge by their own -productions, is an inability to draw. The futurists in their endeavor -to convey symbolically their own “soul” or “vision”--a vision be it -noted of pure flux and motion--deny the very conditions of time and -space that determine the special technique of painting; and inasmuch -as to express one’s “soul” means for these moderns, as it did for the -“genius” of the eighteenth century, to express the ineffable difference -between themselves and others, the symbolizing of this soul to which -they have sacrificed both culture and technique remains a dark mystery. - -An eccentricity so extreme as to be almost or quite indistinguishable -from madness is then the final outcome of the revolt of the original -genius from the regularity of the eighteenth century. The eighteenth -century had, one must confess, become too much like the Happy Valley -from which Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia, sought an egress. It was fair -to the eye and satisfied all man’s ordinary needs, but it seemed at the -same time to hem him in oppressively, and limit unduly his horizons. -For the modern man, as for the prince in Johnson’s tale, a regular -round of assured felicities has counted for nought as compared with the -passion for the open; though now that he has tasted strange adventures, -the modern man will scarcely decide at the end, like the prince, to -“return to Abyssinia.” I have already spoken of the rationalistic and -pseudo-classic elements in the eighteenth century that the romantic -rebels found so intolerable. It is impossible to follow “reason,” they -said in substance, and also to slake one’s thirst for the “infinite”; -it is impossible to conform and imitate and at the same time to be free -and original and spontaneous. Above all it is impossible to submit -to the yoke of either reason or imitation and at the same time to be -imaginative. This last assertion will always be the main point at issue -in any genuine debate between classicist and romanticist. The supreme -thing in life, the romanticist declares, is the creative imagination, -and it can be restored to its rights only by repudiating imitation. The -imagination is supreme the classicist grants but adds that to imitate -rightly is to make the highest use of the imagination. To understand -all that is implied in this central divergence between classicist -and romanticist we shall need to study in more detail the kind of -imaginative activity that has been encouraged in the whole movement -extending from the rise of the original genius in the eighteenth -century to the present day. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -ROMANTIC IMAGINATION - - -I have already spoken of the contrast established by the theorists of -original genius in the eighteenth century between the different types -of imagination--especially between the literary and the scientific -imagination. According to these theorists, it will be remembered, the -scientific imagination should be strictly subordinated to judgment, -whereas the literary imagination, freed from the shackles of imitation, -should be at liberty to wander wild in its own empire of chimeras, -or, at all events, should be far less sharply checked by judgment. -It is easy to follow the extension of these English views of genius -and imagination into the France of Rousseau and Diderot, and then -the elaboration of these same views, under the combined influence of -both France and England, in Germany. I have tried to show that Kant, -especially in his “Critique of Judgment,” and Schiller in his “Æsthetic -Letters” (1795) prepare the way for the conception of the creative -imagination that is at the very heart of the romantic movement. -According to this romantic conception, as we have seen, the imagination -is to be free, not merely from outer formalistic constraint, but from -all constraint whatever. This extreme romantic emancipation of the -imagination was accompanied by an equally extreme emancipation of the -emotions. Both kinds of emancipation are, as I have tried to show, -a recoil partly from neo-classical judgment--a type of judgment -which seemed to oppress all that is creative and spontaneous in man -under a weight of outer convention; partly, from the reason of the -Enlightenment, a type of reason that was so logical and abstract that -it seemed to mechanize the human spirit, and to be a denial of all -that is immediate and intuitive. The neo-classical judgment, with its -undue unfriendliness to the imagination, is itself a recoil, let us -remember, from the imaginative extravagance of the “metaphysicals,” the -intellectual romanticists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, -and also, if we take a sufficiently wide view, from the Quixotic type -of romanticism, the romanticism of action, that we associate with the -Middle Ages. - -Now not only are men governed by their imaginations (the imagination, -as Pascal says, disposes of everything), but the type of imagination -by which most men are governed may be defined in the widest sense -of the word as romantic. Nearly every man cherishes his dream, his -conceit of himself as he would like to be, a sort of “ideal” projection -of his own desires, in comparison with which his actual life seems -a hard and cramping routine. “Man must conceive himself what he is -not,” as Dr. Johnson says, “for who is pleased with what he is?” The -ample habitation that a man rears for his fictitious or “ideal” self -often has some slight foundation in fact, but the higher he rears -it the more insecure it becomes, until finally, like Perrette in -the fable, he brings the whole structure down about his ears by the -very gesture of his dream. “We all of us,” La Fontaine concludes in -perhaps the most delightful account of the romantic imagination in -literature, “wise as well as foolish, indulge in daydreams. There is -nothing sweeter. A flattering illusion carries away our spirits. All -the wealth in the world is ours, all honors and all women,”[52] etc. -When Johnson descants on the “dangerous prevalence of imagination,”[53] -and warns us to stick to “sober probability,” what he means is the -dangerous prevalence of day-dreaming. The retreat of the Rousseauist -into some “land of chimeras” or tower of ivory assumes forms almost -incredibly complex and subtle, but at bottom the ivory tower is only -one form of man’s ineradicable longing to escape from the oppression -of the actual into some land of heart’s desire, some golden age of -fancy. As a matter of fact, Rousseau’s imaginative activity often -approaches very closely to the delights of day-dreaming as described -by La Fontaine. He was never more imaginative, he tells us, than -when on a walking-trip--especially when the trip had no definite -goal, or at least when he could take his time in reaching it. The -_Wanderlust_ of body and spirit could then be satisfied together. -Actual vagabondage seemed to be an aid to the imagination in its escape -from verisimilitude. One should note especially Rousseau’s account of -his early wandering from Lyons to Paris and the airy structures that -he raised on his anticipations of what he might find there. Inasmuch -as he was to be attached at Paris to the Swiss Colonel Godard, he -already traced for himself in fancy, in spite of his short-sightedness, -a career of military glory. “I had read that Marshal Schomberg was -short-sighted, why shouldn’t Marshal Rousseau be so too?” In the -meanwhile, touched by the sight of the groves and brooks, “I felt in -the midst of my glory that my heart was not made for so much turmoil, -and soon without knowing how, I found myself once more among my beloved -pastorals, renouncing forever the toils of Mars.” - -Thus alongside the real world and in more or less sharp opposition to -it, Rousseau builds up a fictitious world, that _pays des chimères_, -which is alone, as he tells us, worthy of habitation. To study his -imaginative activity is simply to study the new forms that he gives -to what I have called man’s ineradicable longing for some Arcadia, -some land of heart’s desire. Goethe compares the illusions that man -nourishes in his breast to the population of statues in ancient Rome -which were almost as numerous as the population of living men. The -important thing from the point of view of sanity is that a man should -not blur the boundaries between the two populations, that he should not -cease to discriminate between his fact and his fiction. If he confuses -what he dreams himself to be with what he actually is, he has already -entered upon the pathway of madness. It was, for example, natural -for a youth like Rousseau who was at once romantic and musical, to -dream that he was a great composer; but actually to set up as a great -composer and to give the concert at Lausanne, shows an unwillingness to -discriminate between his fictitious and his real world that is plainly -pathological. If not already a megalomaniac, he was even then on the -way to megalomania. - -To wander through the world as though it were an Arcadia or enchanted -vision contrived for one’s especial benefit is an attitude of -childhood--especially of imaginative childhood. “Wherever children -are,” says Novalis, “there is the golden age.” As the child grows and -matures there is a more or less painful process of adjustment between -his “vision” and the particular reality in which he is placed. A little -sense gets knocked into his head, and often, it must be confessed, a -good deal of the imagination gets knocked out. As Wordsworth complains, -the vision fades into the light of common day. The striking fact about -Rousseau is that, far more than Wordsworth, he held fast to his vision. -He refused to adjust it to an unpalatable reality. During the very -years when the ordinary youth is forced to subordinate his luxurious -imaginings to some definite discipline he fell under the influence of -Madame de Warens who encouraged rather than thwarted his Arcadian bent. -Later, when almost incurably confirmed in his penchant for revery, he -came into contact with the refined society of Paris, an environment -requiring so difficult an adjustment that no one we are told could -accomplish the feat unless he had been disciplined into the appropriate -habits from the age of six. He is indeed the supreme example of the -unadjusted man, of the original genius whose imagination has never -suffered either inner or outer constraint, who is more of an Arcadian -dreamer at sixty perhaps than he was at sixteen. He writes to the -Bailli de Mirabeau (31 January, 1767): - - “The fatigue of thinking becomes every day more painful to me. - I love to dream, but freely, allowing my mind to wander without - enslaving myself to any subject. … This idle and contemplative - life which you do not approve and which I do not excuse, - becomes to me daily more delicious; to wander alone endlessly - and ceaselessly among the trees and rocks about my dwelling, - to muse or rather to be as irresponsible as I please, and as - you say, to go wool-gathering; … finally to give myself up - unconstrainedly to my fantasies which, thank heaven, are all - within my power: that, sir, is for me the supreme enjoyment, - than which I can imagine nothing superior in this world for a - man at my age and in my condition.” - -Rousseau, then, owes his significance not only to the fact that he was -supremely imaginative in an age that was disposed to deny the supremacy -of the imagination, but to the fact that he was imaginative in a -particular way. A great multitude since his time must be reckoned among -his followers, not because they have held certain ideas but because -they have exhibited a similar quality of imagination. In seeking to -define this quality of imagination we are therefore at the very heart -of our subject. - -It is clear from what has already been said that Rousseau’s imagination -was in a general way Arcadian, and this, if not the highest, is perhaps -the most prevalent type of imagination. In surveying the literature of -the world one is struck not only by the universality of the pastoral -or idyllic element, but by the number of forms it has assumed--forms -ranging from the extreme of artificiality and conventionalism to the -purest poetry. The very society against the artificiality of which -Rousseau’s whole work is a protest is itself in no small degree a -pastoral creation. Various elements indeed entered into the life of -the drawing-room as it came to be conceived towards the beginning -of the seventeenth century. The Marquise de Rambouillet and others -who set out at this time to live in the grand manner were in so -far governed either by genuine or by artificial decorum. But at the -same time that the creators of _le grand monde_ were aiming to be -more “decent” than the men and women of the sixteenth century, they -were patterning themselves upon the shepherds and shepherdesses of -D’Urfé’s interminable pastoral “l’Astrée.” They were seeking to create -a sort of enchanted world from which the harsh cares of ordinary life -were banished and where they might be free, like true Arcadians, to -discourse of love. This discourse of love was associated with what -I have defined as intellectual romanticism. In spite of the attacks -by the exponents of humanistic good sense (Molière, Boileau, etc.) -on this drawing-room affectation, it lingered on and still led in -the eighteenth century, as Rousseau complained, to “inconceivable -refinements.”[54] At the same time we should recollect that there is -a secret bond between all forms of Arcadian dreaming. Not only was -Rousseau fascinated, like the early _précieux_ and _précieuses_, by -D’Urfé’s pastoral, but he himself appealed by his renewal of the main -pastoral theme of love to the descendants of these former Arcadians -in the polite society of his time. The love of Rousseau is associated -not like that of the _précieux_, with the intellect, but with the -emotions, and so he substitutes for a “wire-drawn and super-subtilized -gallantry,” the ground-swell of elemental passion.[55] Moreover, the -definitely primitivistic coloring that he gave to his imaginative -renewal of the pastoral dream appealed to an age that was reaching the -last stages of over-refinement. Primitivism is, strictly speaking, -nothing new in the world. It always tends to appear in periods of -complex civilization. The charms of the simple life and of a return -to nature were celebrated especially during the Alexandrian period -of Greek literature for the special delectation no doubt of the most -sophisticated members of this very sophisticated society. “Nothing,” as -Dr. Santayana says, “is farther from the common people than the corrupt -desire to be primitive.” Primitivistic dreaming was also popular -in ancient Rome at its most artificial moment. The great ancients, -however, though enjoying the poetry of the primitivistic dream, were -not the dupes of this dream. Horace, for example, lived at the most -artificial moment of Rome when primitivistic dreaming was popular as -it had been at Alexandria. He descants on the joys of the simple life -in a well-known ode. One should not therefore hail him, like Schiller, -as the founder of the sentimental school “of which he has remained the -unsurpassed model.”[56] For the person who plans to return to nature -in Horace’s poem is the old usurer Alfius, who changes his mind at -the last moment and puts out his mortgages again. In short, the final -attitude of the urbane Horace towards the primitivistic dream--it could -hardly be otherwise--is ironical. - -Rousseau seems destined to remain the supreme example, at least in the -Occident, of the man who takes the primitivistic dream seriously, who -attempts to set up primitivism as a philosophy and even as a religion. -Rousseau’s account of his sudden illumination on the road from Paris -to Vincennes is famous: the scales, he tells us, fell from his eyes -even as they had from the eyes of Paul on the road to Damascus, and -he saw how man had fallen from the felicity of his primitive estate; -how the blissful ignorance in which he had lived at one with himself -and harmless to his fellows had been broken by the rise of intellectual -self-consciousness and the resulting progress in the sciences and -arts. Modern students of Rousseau have, under the influence of James, -taken this experience on the road to Vincennes to be an authentic -case of conversion,[57] but this is merely one instance of our modern -tendency to confound the subrational with the superrational. What one -finds in this alleged conversion when one looks into it, is a sort of -“subliminal uprush” of the Arcadian memories of his youth, especially -of his life at Annecy and Les Charmettes, and at the same time the -contrast between these Arcadian memories and the hateful constraints -he had suffered at Paris in his attempts to adjust himself to an -uncongenial environment. - -We can trace even more clearly perhaps the process by which the -Arcadian dreamer comes to set up as a seer, in Rousseau’s relation of -the circumstances under which he came to compose his “Discourse on the -Origins of Inequality.” He goes off on a sort of picnic with Thérèse -into the forest of St. Germain and gives himself up to imagining the -state of primitive man. “Plunged in the forest,” he says, “I sought -and found there the image of primitive times of which I proudly -drew the history; I swooped down on the little falsehoods of men; I -ventured to lay bare their nature, to follow the progress of time and -of circumstances which have disfigured it, and comparing artificial -man (_l’homme de l’homme_) with natural man, to show in his alleged -improvement the true source of his miseries. My soul, exalted by these -sublime contemplations, rose into the presence of the Divinity. Seeing -from this vantage point that the blind pathway of prejudices followed -by my fellows was also that of their errors, misfortunes and crimes, I -cried out to them in a feeble voice that they could not hear: Madmen, -who are always complaining of nature, know that all your evils come -from yourselves alone.” - -The golden age for which the human heart has an ineradicable longing -is here presented not as poetical, which it certainly is, but as a -“state of nature” from which man has actually fallen. The more or less -innocent Arcadian dreamer is being transformed into the dangerous -Utopist. He puts the blame of the conflict and division of which he is -conscious in himself upon the social conventions that set bounds to -his temperament and impulses; once get rid of these purely artificial -restrictions and he feels that he will again be at one with himself and -“nature.” With such a vision of nature as this it is not surprising -that every constraint is unendurable to Rousseau, that he likes, as -Berlioz was to say of himself later, to “make all barriers crack.” -He is ready to shatter all the forms of civilized life in favor of -something that never existed, of a state of nature that is only the -projection of his own temperament and its dominant desires upon the -void. His programme amounts in practice to the indulgence of infinite -indeterminate desire, to an endless and aimless vagabondage of the -emotions with the imagination as their free accomplice. - -This longing of the highly sophisticated person to get back to the -primitive and naïve and unconscious, or what amounts to the same -thing, to shake off the trammels of tradition and reason in favor of -free and passionate self-expression, underlies, as I have pointed out, -the conception of original genius which itself underlies the whole -modern movement. A book reflecting the primitivistic trend of the -eighteenth century, and at the same time pointing the way, as we shall -see presently, to the working out of the fundamental primitivistic -contrast between the natural and the artificial in the romanticism -of the early nineteenth century, is Schiller’s “Essay on Simple and -Sentimental Poetry.” The poetry that does not “look before or after,” -that is free from self-questioning and self-consciousness, and has a -childlike spontaneity, Schiller calls simple or naïve. The poet, on the -other hand, who is conscious of his fall from nature and who, from the -midst of his sophistication, longs to be back once more at his mother’s -bosom, is sentimental. Homer and his heroes, for example, are naïve; -Werther, who yearns in a drawing-room for the Homeric simplicity, is -sentimental. The longing of the modern man for nature, says Schiller, -is that of the sick man for health. It is hard to see in Schiller’s -“nature” anything more than a development of Rousseau’s primitivistic -Arcadia. To be sure, Schiller warns us that, in order to recover the -childlike and primitive virtues still visible in the man of genius, -we must not renounce culture. We must not seek to revert lazily to -an Arcadia, but must struggle forward to an Elysium. Unfortunately -Schiller’s Elysium has a strange likeness to Rousseau’s Arcadia; and -that is because Schiller’s own conception of life is, in the last -analysis, overwhelmingly sentimental. His most Elysian conception, -that of a purely æsthetic Greece, a wonderland of unalloyed beauty, is -also a bit of Arcadian sentimentalizing. Inasmuch as Rousseau’s state -of nature never existed outside of dreamland, the Greek who is simple -or naïve in this sense is likewise a myth. He has no real counterpart -either in the Homeric age or any other age of Greece. It is hard to -say which is more absurd, to make the Greeks naïve, or to turn Horace -into a sentimentalist. One should note how this romantic perversion -of the Greeks for which Schiller is largely responsible is related -to his general view of the imagination. We have seen that in the -“Æsthetic Letters” he maintains that if the imagination is to conceive -the ideal it must be free; and that to be free it must be emancipated -from purpose and engage in a sort of play. If the imagination has to -subordinate itself to a real object it ceases in so far to be free. -Hence the more ideal the imagination the farther it gets away from a -real object. By his theory of the imagination, Schiller thus encourages -that opposition between the ideal and the real which figures so largely -in romantic psychology. A man may consent to adjust a mere dream to -the requirements of the real, but when his dream is promoted to the -dignity of an ideal it is plain that he will be less ready to make -the sacrifice. Schiller’s Greece is very ideal in the sense I have -just defined. It hovers before the imagination as a sort of Golden -Age of pure beauty, a land of chimeras that is alone worthy of the -æsthete’s habitation. As an extreme type of the romantic Hellenist, -one may take Hölderlin, who was a disciple at once of Schiller and of -Rousseau. He begins by urging emancipation from every form of outer -and traditional control in the name of spontaneity. “Boldly forget,” -he cries in the very accents of Rousseau, “what you have inherited and -won--all laws and customs--and like new-born babes lift up your eyes -to godlike nature.” Hölderlin has been called a “Hellenizing Werther,” -and Werther, one should recollect, is only a German Saint-Preux, who is -in turn, according to Rousseau’s own avowal, only an idealized image -of Rousseau. The nature that Hölderlin worships and which is, like the -nature of Rousseau, only an Arcadian intoxication of the imagination, -he associates with a Greece which is, like the Greece of Schiller, -a dreamland of pure beauty. He longs to escape into this dreamland -from an actual world that seems to him intolerably artificial. The -contrast between his “ideal” Greece and reality is so acute as to make -all attempt at adjustment out of the question. As a result of this -maladjustment his whole being finally gave way and he lingered on for -many years in madness. - -The acuteness of the opposition between the ideal and the real in -Hölderlin recalls Shelley, who was also a romantic Hellenist, and at -the same time perhaps the most purely Rousseauistic of the English -romantic poets. But Shelley was also a political dreamer, and here one -should note two distinct phases in his dream: a first phase that is -filled with the hope of transforming the real world into an Arcadia[58] -through revolutionary reform; and then a phase of elegiac disillusion -when the gap between reality and his ideal refuses to be bridged.[59] -Something of the same radiant political hope and the same disillusion -is found in Wordsworth. In the first flush of his revolutionary -enthusiasm, France seemed to him to be “standing on the top of golden -hours” and pointing the way to a new birth of human nature: - - Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, - But to be young was very heaven! O times, - In which the meagre stale forbidding ways - Of custom, law and statute, took at once - The attraction of a country in romance! - -When it became evident that the actual world and Utopia did not -coincide after all, when the hard sequences of cause and effect that -bind the present inexorably to the past refused to yield to the -creations of the romantic imagination, what ensued in Wordsworth -was not so much an awakening to true wisdom as a transformation of -the pastoral dream. The English Lake Country became for him in some -measure as it was later to be for Ruskin, the ivory tower into which -he retreated from the oppression of the real. He still continued to -see, if not the general order of society, at least the denizens of his -chosen retreat through the Arcadian mist, and contrasted their pastoral -felicity with the misery of men “barricadoed in the walls of cities.” I -do not mean to disparage the poetry of humble life or to deny that many -passages may be cited from Wordsworth that justify his reputation as an -inspired teacher: I wish merely to point out here and elsewhere what is -specifically romantic in the quality of his imagination. - -After all it is to Rousseau himself even more than to his German or -English followers that one needs to turn for the best examples of -the all-pervasive conflict between the ideal and the actual. The -psychology of this conflict is revealed with special clearness in the -four letters that he wrote to M. de Malesherbes, and into which he has -perhaps put more of himself than into any other similar amount of his -writing. His natural indolence and impatience at the obligations and -constraints of life were, he avows to M. de Malesherbes, increased -by his early reading. At the age of eight he already knew Plutarch -by heart and had read “all novels” and shed tears over them, he adds -“by the pailful.” Hence was formed his “heroic and romantic taste” -which filled him with aversion for everything that did not resemble -his dreams. He had hoped at first to find the equivalent of these -dreams among actual men, but after painful disillusions he had come -to look with disdain on his age and his contemporaries. “I withdrew -more and more from human society and created for myself a society -in my imagination, a society that charmed me all the more in that I -could cultivate it without peril or effort and that it was always at -my call and such as I required it.” He associated this dream society -with the forms of outer nature. The long walks in particular that he -took during his stay at the Hermitage were, he tells us, filled with -a “continual delirium” of this kind. “I peopled nature with beings -according to my heart. … I created for myself a golden age to suit my -fancy.” It is not unusual for a man thus to console himself for his -poverty in the real relations of life by accumulating a huge hoard of -fairy gold. Where the Rousseauist goes beyond the ordinary dreamer is -in his proneness to regard his retirement into some land of chimeras as -a proof of his nobility and distinction. Poetry and life he feels are -irreconcilably opposed to each other, and he for his part is on the -side of poetry and the “ideal.” Goethe symbolized the hopelessness of -this conflict in the suicide of the young Werther. But though Werther -died, his creator continued to live, and more perhaps than any other -figure in the whole Rousseauistic movement perceived the peril of this -conception of poetry and the ideal. He saw phantasts all about him who -refused to be reconciled to the gap between the infinitude of their -longing and the platitude of their actual lot. Perhaps no country and -time ever produced more such phantasts than Germany of the Storm and -Stress and romantic periods--partly no doubt because it did not offer -any proper outlet for the activity of generous youths. Goethe himself -had been a phantast, and so it was natural in works like his “Tasso” -that he should show himself specially preoccupied with the problem -of the poet and his adjustment to life. About the time that he wrote -this play, he was, as he tells us, very much taken up with thoughts of -“Rousseau and his hypochondriac misery.” Rousseau for his part felt -a kinship between himself and Tasso, and Goethe’s Tasso certainly -reminds us very strongly of Rousseau. Carried away by his Arcadian -imaginings, Tasso violates the decorum that separates him from the -princess with whom he has fallen in love. As a result of the rebuffs -that follow, his dream changes into a nightmare, until he finally falls -like Rousseau into wild and random suspicion and looks on himself as -the victim of a conspiracy. In opposition to Tasso is the figure of -Antonio, the man of the world, whose imagination does not run away with -his sense of fact, and who is therefore equal to the “demands of the -day.” The final reconciliation between Tasso and Antonio, if not very -convincing dramatically, symbolizes at least what Goethe achieved in -some measure in his own life. There were moments, he declares, when -he might properly look upon himself as mad, like Rousseau. He escaped -from this world of morbid brooding, this giddy downward gazing into -the bottomless pit of the romantic heart against which he utters a -warning in Tasso, by his activity at the court of Weimar, by classical -culture, by scientific research. Goethe carries the same problem of -reconciling the ideal to the real a stage further in his “Wilhelm -Meister.” The more or less irresponsible and Bohemian youth that we -see at the beginning learns by renunciation and self-limitation to -fit into a life of wholesome activity. Goethe saw that the remedy for -romantic dreaming is work, though he is open to grave criticism, as I -shall try to show elsewhere, for his unduly naturalistic conception of -work. But the romanticists as a rule did not wish work in any sense and -so, attracted as they were by the free artistic life of Meister at the -beginning, they looked upon his final adjustment to the real as a base -capitulation to philistinism. Novalis described the book as a “Candide -directed against poetry,” and set out to write a counterblast in -“Heinrich von Ofterdingen.” This apotheosis of pure poetry, as he meant -it to be, is above all an apotheosis of the wildest vagabondage of the -imagination. Novalis did not, however, as a result of the conflict -between the ideal and the real, show any signs of going mad like -Hölderlin, or of simply fading from life like his friend Wackenroder. -Like E. T. A. Hoffmann and a certain number of other phantasts he had -a distinct gift for leading a dual life--for dividing himself into -a prosaic self which went one way, and a poetical self which went -another. - -This necessary and fatal opposition between poetry and prose the -romanticist saw typified in “Don Quixote,” and of course he sided with -the idealism of the knight against the philistine good sense of Sancho -Panza; and so for the early romanticists as well as for those who were -of their spiritual posterity,--Heine, for example, and Flaubert,--“Don -Quixote” was a book to evoke not laughter but tears. - -To the romantic conception of the ideal can be traced the increasing -lack of understanding between the poet, or in general the creator, and -the public during the past century. Many neo-classical writers may, -like Boileau, have shown an undue reverence for what they conceived to -be the general sense of their time, but to measure one’s inspiration -by one’s remoteness from this general sense is surely a far more -dangerous error; and yet one was encouraged to do this very thing by -the views of original genius that were held in the eighteenth century. -Certain late neo-classicists lacked imagination and were at the same -time always harping on good sense. It was therefore assumed that to -insist on good sense was necessarily proof of a lack of imagination. -Because the attempt to achieve the universal had led to a stale and -lifeless imitation it was assumed that a man’s genius consists in -his uniqueness, in his unlikeness to other men. Now nothing is more -private and distinctive in a man than his feelings, so that to be -unique meant practically for Rousseau and his followers to be unique -in feeling. Feeling alone they held was vital and immediate. As a -matter of fact the element in a man’s nature that he possesses in -common with other men is also something that he _senses_, something -that is in short intuitive and immediate. But good sense the genius -identifies with lifeless convention and so measures his originality by -the distance of his emotional and imaginative recoil from it. Of this -warfare between sense and sensibility that begins in the eighteenth -century, the romantic war between the poet and the philistine is only -the continuation. This war has been bad for both artist and public. If -the artist has become more and more eccentric, it must be confessed -that the good sense of the public against which he has protested -has been too flatly utilitarian. The poet who reduces poetry to the -imaginative quest of strange emotional adventure, and the plain -citizen who does not aspire beyond a reality that is too literal and -prosaic, both suffer; but the æsthete suffers the more severely--so -much so that I shall need to revert to this conception of poetry in -my treatment of romantic melancholy. It leads at last to a contrast -between the ideal and the real such as is described by Anatole France -in his account of Villiers de l’Isle Adam. “For thirty years,” says M. -France, “Villiers wandered around in cafés at night, fading away like -a shadow at the first glimmer of dawn. … His poverty, the frightful -poverty of cities, had so put its stamp on him and fashioned him so -thoroughly that he resembled those vagabonds, who, dressed in black, -sleep on park benches. He had the livid complexion with red blotches, -the glassy eye, the bowed back of the poor; and yet I am not sure we -should call him unhappy, for he lived in a perpetual dream and that -dream was radiantly golden. … His dull eyes contemplated within himself -dazzling spectacles. He passed through the world like a somnambulist -seeing nothing of what we see and seeing things that it is not given -us to behold. Out of the commonplace spectacle of life he succeeded in -creating an ever fresh ecstasy. On those ignoble café tables in the -midst of the odor of beer and tobacco, he poured forth floods of purple -and gold.” - -This notion that literal failure is ideal success, and conversely, has -been developed in a somewhat different form by Rostand in his “Cyrano -de Bergerac.” By his refusal to compromise or adjust himself to things -as they are, Cyrano’s real life has become a series of defeats. He is -finally forced from life by a league of all the mediocrities whom his -idealism affronts. His discomfiture is taken to show, not that he is -a Quixotic extremist, but that he is the superior of the successful -Guise, the man who has stooped to compromise, the French equivalent -of the Antonio whom Goethe finally came to prefer to Tasso. Rostand’s -“Chanticleer” is also an interesting study of romantic idealism and -of the two main stages through which it passes--the first stage when -one relates one’s ideal to the real; the second, when one discovers -that the ideal and the real are more or less hopelessly dissevered. -Chanticleer still maintains his idealistic pose even after he has -discovered that the sun is not actually made to rise by his crowing. -In this hugging of his illusion in defiance of reality Chanticleer -is at the opposite pole from Johnson’s astronomer in “Rasselas” who -thinks that he has control of the weather, but when disillusioned is -humbly thankful at having escaped from this “dangerous prevalence -of imagination,” and entered once more into the domain of “sober -probability.” - -The problem, then, of the genius or the artist versus the philistine -has persisted without essential modification from the eighteenth -century to the present day--from the suicide of Chatterton, let us -say, to the suicide of John Davidson. The man of imagination spurns -in the name of his “ideal” the limits imposed upon it by a dull -respectability, and then his ideal turns out only too often to lack -positive content and to amount in practice to the expansion of infinite -indeterminate desire. What the idealist opposes to the real is not only -something that does not exist, but something that never can exist. The -Arcadian revery which should be allowed at most as an occasional solace -from the serious business of living is set up as a substitute for -living. The imaginative and emotional dalliance of the Rousseauistic -romanticist may assume a bewildering variety of forms. We have already -seen in the case of Hölderlin how easily Rousseau’s dream of a state -of nature passes over--and that in spite of Rousseau’s attacks on -the arts--into the dream of a paradise of pure beauty. The momentous -matter is not that a man’s imagination and emotions go out towards -this or that particular haven of refuge in the future or in the past, -in the East or in the West, but that his primary demand on life is for -some haven of refuge; that he longs to be away from the here and now -and their positive demands on his character and will. Poe may sing of -“the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome,” but he -is not therefore a classicist. With the same wistfulness innumerable -romanticists have looked towards the Middle Ages. So C. E. Norton -says that Ruskin was a white-winged anachronism,[60] that he should -have been born in the thirteenth century. But one may surmise that a -man with Ruskin’s special quality of imagination would have failed -to adjust himself to the actual life of the thirteenth or any other -century. Those who put their Arcadia in the Middle Ages or some other -period of the past have at least this advantage over those who put it -in the present, they are better protected against disillusion. The man -whose Arcadia is distant from him merely in space may decide to go and -see for himself, and the results of this overtaking of one’s dream are -somewhat uncertain. The Austrian poet Lenau, for example, actually -took a trip to his primitive paradise that he had imagined somewhere -in the neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Perhaps it is not surprising that -he finally died mad. The disenchantment of Chateaubriand in his quest -for a Rousseauistic Arcadia in America and for Arcadian savages I -describe later. In his journey into the wilderness Chateaubriand -reveals himself as a spiritual lotos-eater no less surely than the man -who takes flight into what is superficially most remote from the virgin -forest--into some palace of art. His attitude towards America does not -differ psychically from that of many early romanticists towards Italy. -Italy was their land of heart’s desire, the land that filled them with -ineffable longing (_Sehnsucht nach Italien_), a palace of art that, -like the Latin Quarter of later Bohemians, had some points of contact -with Mohammed’s paradise. A man may even develop a romantic longing for -the very period against which romanticism was originally a protest and -be ready to “fling his cap for polish and for Pope.” One should add -that the romantic Eldorado is not necessarily rural. Lamb’s attitude -towards London is almost as romantic as that of Wordsworth towards the -country. Dr. Johnson cherished urban life because of its centrality. -Lamb’s imaginative dalliance, on the other hand, is stimulated by the -sheer variety and wonder of the London streets as another’s might be -by the mountains or the sea.[61] Lamb could also find an Elysium of -unmixed æsthetic solace in the literature of the past--especially in -Restoration Comedy. - -The essence of the mood is always the straining of the imagination away -from the here and now, from an actuality that seems paltry and faded -compared to the radiant hues of one’s dream. The classicist, according -to A. W. Schlegel,[62] is for making the most of the present, whereas -the romanticist hovers between recollection and hope. In Shelleyan -phrase he “looks before and after and pines for what is not.” He -inclines like the Byronic dandy, Barbey d’Aurevilly, to take for his -mottoes the words “Too late” and “Nevermore.” - -Nostalgia, the term that has come to be applied to the infinite -indeterminate longing of the romanticist--his never-ending quest -after the ever-fleeting object of desire--is not, from the point of -view of strict etymology, well-chosen. Romantic nostalgia is not -“homesickness,” accurately speaking, but desire to get away from -home. Odysseus in Homer suffers from true nostalgia. The Ulysses of -Tennyson, on the other hand, is nostalgic in the romantic sense when he -leaves home “to sail beyond the sunset.” Ovid, as Goethe points out, -is highly classical even in his melancholy. The longing from which -he suffers in his exile is very determinate: he longs to get back to -Rome, the centre of the world. Ovid indeed sums up the classic point -of view when he says that one cannot desire the unknown (_ignoti -nulla cupido_).[63] The essence of nostalgia is the desire for the -unknown. “I was burning with desire,” says Rousseau, “without any -definite object.” One is filled with a desire to fly one knows not -whither, to be off on a journey into the blue distance.[64] Music is -exalted by the romanticists above all other arts because it is the -most nostalgic, the art that is most suggestive of the hopeless gap -between the “ideal” and the “real.” “Music,” in Emerson’s phrase, -“pours on mortals its beautiful disdain.” “Away! away!” cries Jean Paul -to Music. “Thou speakest of things which throughout my endless life I -have found not, and shall not find.” In musical and other nostalgia, -the feelings receive a sort of infinitude from the coöperation of the -imagination; and this infinitude, this quest of something that must -ever elude one, is at the same time taken to be the measure of one’s -idealism. The symmetry and form that the classicist gains from working -within bounds are no doubt excellent, but then the willingness to work -within bounds betokens a lack of aspiration. If the primitivist is -ready, as some one has complained, to turn his back on the bright forms -of Olympus and return to the ancient gods of chaos and of night, the -explanation is to be sought in this idea of the infinite. It finally -becomes a sort of Moloch to which he is prepared to sacrifice most -of the values of civilized life. The chief fear of the classicist is -to be thought monstrous. The primitivist on the contrary is inclined -to see a proof of superior amplitude of spirit in mere grotesqueness -and disproportion. The creation of monsters is, as Hugo says, a -“satisfaction due to the infinite.”[65] - -The breaking down by the emotional romanticist of the barriers that -separate not merely the different literary genres but the different -arts is only another aspect of his readiness to follow the lure -of the infinite. The title of a recent bit of French decadent -verse--“Nostalgia in Blue Minor”--would already have been perfectly -intelligible to a Tieck or a Novalis. The Rousseauist--and that from a -very early stage in the movement--does not hesitate to pursue his ever -receding dream across all frontiers, not merely those that separate art -from art, but those that divide flesh from spirit and even good from -evil, until finally he arrives like Blake at a sort of “Marriage of -Heaven and Hell.” When he is not breaking down barriers in the name of -the freedom of the imagination he is doing so in the name of what he is -pleased to term love. - - “The ancient art and poetry,” says A. W. Schlegel, “rigorously - separate things which are dissimilar; the romantic delights - in indissoluble mixtures. All contrarieties: nature and art, - poetry and prose, seriousness and mirth, recollection and - anticipation, spirituality and sensuality, terrestrial and - celestial, life and death, are by it blended together in the - most intimate combination. As the oldest lawgivers delivered - their mandatory instructions and prescriptions in measured - melodies; as this is fabulously ascribed to Orpheus, the first - softener of the yet untamed race of mortals; in like manner - the whole of the ancient poetry and art is, as it were a - _rhythmical nomos_ (law), an harmonious promulgation of the - permanently established legislation of a world submitted to a - beautiful order, and reflecting in itself the eternal images of - things. Romantic poetry, on the other hand, is the expression - of the secret attraction to a chaos which lies concealed in - the very bosom of the ordered universe, and is perpetually - striving after new and marvellous births; the life-giving - spirit of primal love broods here anew on the face of the - waters. The former is more simple, clear, and like to nature in - the self-existent perfection of her separate works; the latter, - notwithstanding its fragmentary appearance, approaches more to - the secret of the universe. For Conception can only comprise - each object separately, but nothing in truth can ever exist - separately and by itself; Feeling perceives all in all at one - and the same time.”[66] - -Note the assumption here that the clear-cut distinctions of classicism -are merely abstract and intellectual, and that the only true unity is -the unity of feeling. - -In passages of this kind A. W. Schlegel is little more than the -popularizer of the ideas of his brother Friedrich. Perhaps no one in -the whole romantic movement showed a greater genius for confusion than -Friedrich Schlegel; no one, in Nietzsche’s phrase, had a more intimate -knowledge of all the bypaths to chaos. Now it is from the German group -of which Friedrich Schlegel was the chief theorist that romanticism -as a distinct and separate movement takes its rise. We may therefore -pause appropriately at this point to consider briefly how the epithet -romantic of which I have already sketched the early history came to -be applied to a distinct school. In the latter part of the eighteenth -century, it will be remembered, romantic had become a fairly frequent -word in English and also (under English influence) a less frequent, -though not rare word, in French and German; it was often used favorably -in all these countries as applied to nature, and usually indeed in -this sense in France and Germany; but in England, when applied to -human nature and as the equivalent of the French _romanesque_, it had -ordinarily an unfavorable connotation; it signified the “dangerous -prevalence of imagination” over “sober probability,” as may be seen -in Foster’s essay “On the Epithet Romantic.” One may best preface a -discussion of the next step--the transference of the word to a distinct -movement--by a quotation from Goethe’s Conversations with Eckermann (21 -March, 1830): - - “This division of poetry into classic and romantic,” says - Goethe, “which is to-day diffused throughout the whole world - and has caused so much argument and discord, comes originally - from Schiller and me. It was my principle in poetry always to - work objectively. Schiller on the contrary wrote nothing that - was not subjective; he thought his manner good, and to defend - it he wrote his article on naïve and sentimental poetry. … The - Schlegels got hold of this idea, developed it and little by - little it has spread throughout the whole world. Everybody is - talking of romanticism and classicism. Fifty years ago nobody - gave the matter a thought.” - -One statement in this passage of Goethe’s is perhaps open to -question--that concerning the obligation of the Schlegels, or rather -Friedrich Schlegel, to Schiller’s treatise. A comparison of the date -of publication of the treatise on “Naïve and Sentimental Poetry” with -the date of composition of Schlegel’s early writings would seem to -show that some of Schlegel’s distinctions, though closely related to -those of Schiller, do not derive from them so immediately as Goethe -seems to imply.[67] Both sets of views grow rather inevitably out -of a primitivistic or Rousseauistic conception of “nature” that had -been epidemic in Germany ever since the Age of Genius. We need also -to keep in mind certain personal traits of Schlegel if we are to -understand the development of his theories about literature and art. -He was romantic, not only by his genius for confusion, but also one -should add, by his tendency to oscillate violently between extremes. -For him as for Rousseau there was “no intermediary term between -everything and nothing.” One should note here another meaning that -certain romanticists give to the word “ideal”--Hazlitt, for example, -when he says that the “ideal is always to be found in extremes.” -Every imaginable extreme, the extreme of reaction as well as the -extreme of radicalism, goes with romanticism; every genuine mediation -between extremes is just as surely unromantic. Schlegel then was very -idealistic in the sense I have just defined. Having begun as an extreme -partisan of the Greeks, conceived in Schiller’s fashion as a people -that was at once harmonious and instinctive, he passes over abruptly to -the extreme of revolt against every form of classicism, and then after -having posed in works like his “Lucinde” as a heaven-storming Titan -who does not shrink at the wildest excess of emotional unrestraint, -he passes over no less abruptly to Catholicism and its rigid outer -discipline. This last phase of Schlegel has at least this much in -common with his phase of revolt, that it carried with it a cult of the -Middle Ages. The delicate point to determine about Friedrich Schlegel -and many other romanticists is why they finally came to place their -land of heart’s desire in the Middle Ages rather than in Greece. In -treating this question one needs to take at least a glance at the -modification that Herder (whose influence on German romanticism is very -great) gave to the primitivism of Rousseau. Cultivate your genius, -Rousseau said in substance, your ineffable difference from other men, -and look back with longing to the ideal moment of this genius--the age -of childhood, when your spontaneous self was not as yet cramped by -conventions or “sicklied o’er by the pale cast of thought.” Cultivate -your national genius, Herder said in substance, and look back wistfully -at the golden beginnings of your nationality when it was still naïve -and “natural,” when poetry instead of being concocted painfully by -individuals was still the unconscious emanation of the folk. Herder -indeed expands primitivism along these lines into a whole philosophy -of history. The romantic notion of the origin of the epic springs -out of this soil, a notion that is probably at least as remote from -the facts as the neo-classical notion--and that is saying a great -deal. Any German who followed Herder in the extension that he gave -to Rousseau’s views about genius and spontaneity could not only see -the folk soul mirrored at least as naïvely in the “Nibelungenlied” as -in the “Iliad,” but by becoming a mediæval enthusiast he could have -the superadded pleasure of indulging not merely personal but racial -and national idiosyncrasy. Primitivistic mediævalism is therefore an -important ingredient, especially in the case of Germany, in romantic -nationalism--the type that has flourished beyond all measure during -the past century. Again, though one might, like Hölderlin, cherish an -infinite longing for the Greeks, the Greeks themselves, at least the -Greeks of Schiller, did not experience longing; but this fact came -to be felt more and more by F. Schlegel and other romanticists as an -inferiority, showing as it did that they were content with the finite. -As for the neo-classicists who were supposed to be the followers of -the Greeks, their case was even worse; they not only lacked aspiration -and infinitude, but were sunk in artificiality, and had moreover become -so analytical that they must perforce see things in “disconnection -dead and spiritless.” The men of the Middle Ages, on the other hand, -as F. Schlegel saw them, were superior to the neo-classicists in being -naïve; their spontaneity and unity of feeling had not yet suffered -from artificiality, or been disintegrated by analysis.[68] At the same -time they were superior to the Greeks in having aspiration and the -sense of the infinite. The very irregularity of their art testified to -this infinitude. It is not uncommon in the romantic movement thus to -assume that because one has very little form one must therefore have -a great deal of “soul.” F. Schlegel so extended his definition of the -mediæval spirit as to make it include writers like Shakespeare and -Cervantes, who seemed to him to be vital and free from formalism. The -new nationalism was also made to turn to the profit of the Middle Ages. -Each nation in shaking off the yoke of classical imitation and getting -back to its mediæval past, was recovering what was primitive in its own -genius, was substituting what was indigenous for what was alien to it. - -The person who did more than any one else to give international -currency to the views of the Schlegels about classic and romantic and -to their primitivistic mediævalism was Madame de Staël in her book -on Germany. It was with special reference to Madame de Staël and her -influence that Daunou wrote the following passage in his introduction -to La Harpe, a passage that gives curious evidence of the early -attitude of French literary conservatives towards the new school: - - “One of the services that he [La Harpe] should render nowadays - is to fortify young people against vain and gothic doctrines - which would reduce the fine arts to childhood if they could - ever gain credit in the land of Racine and Voltaire. La Harpe - uttered a warning against these doctrines when he discovered - the first germs of them in the books of Diderot, Mercier and - some other innovators. Yet these writers were far from having - professed fully the barbaric or childish system which has been - taught and developed among us for a few years past; it is of - foreign origin; it had no name in our language and the name - that has been given to it is susceptible in fact of no precise - meaning. Romanticism, for thus it is called, was imported - into our midst along with Kantism, with mysticism and other - doctrines of the same stamp which collectively might be named - obscurantism. These are words which La Harpe was happy enough - not to hear. He was accustomed to too much clearness in his - ideas and expression to use such words or even to understand - them. He did not distinguish two literatures. The literature - that nature and society have created for us and which for three - thousand years past has been established and preserved and - reproduced by masterpieces appeared to him alone worthy of a - Frenchman of the eighteenth century. He did not foresee that it - would be reduced some day to being only a particular kind of - literature, tolerated or reproved under the name of classic, - and that its noblest productions would be put on the same level - as the formless sketches of uncultivated genius and untried - talents. Yet more than once decadence has thus been taken for - an advance, and a retrograde movement for progress. Art is so - difficult. It is quicker to abandon it and to owe everything to - your genius. … Because perfection calls for austere toil you - maintain that it is contrary to nature. This is a system that - suits at once indolence and vanity. Is anything more needed to - make it popular, especially when it has as auxiliary an obscure - philosophy which is termed transcendent or transcendental? That - is just the way sound literature fell into decline beginning - with the end of the first century of the Christian era. It - became extinct only to revive after a long period of darkness - and barbarism; and that is how it will fall into decline again - if great examples and sage lessons should ever lose their - authority.” - -The general public in England became at least vaguely aware of the new -movement with the translation of Madame de Staël’s “Germany” (1813) -and A. W. Schlegel’s “Dramatic Art and Literature” (1815). Byron wrote -in his reply to Bowles (1821): “Schlegel and Madame de Staël have -endeavored to reduce poetry to _two_ systems, classical and romantic. -The effect is only beginning.” - -The distinction between classic and romantic worked out by the -Schlegels and spread abroad by Madame de Staël was, then, largely -associated with a certain type of mediævalism. Nevertheless one cannot -insist too strongly that the new school deserved to be called romantic, -not because it was mediæval, but because it displayed a certain quality -of imagination in its mediævalism. The longing for the Middle Ages is -merely a very frequent form of nostalgia, and nostalgia I have defined -as the pursuit of pure illusion. No doubt a man may be mediæval in -his leanings and yet very free from nostalgia. He may, for example, -prefer St. Thomas Aquinas to any modern philosopher on grounds that are -the very reverse of romantic; and in the attitude of any particular -person towards the Middle Ages, romantic and unromantic elements may -be mingled in almost any conceivable proportion; and the same may be -said of any past epoch that one prefers to the present. Goethe, for -instance, as has been remarked, took flight from his own reality, -but he did not, like the romanticists, take flight from all reality. -The classical world in which Goethe dwelt in imagination during his -latter years, in the midst of a very unclassical environment, was to -some extent at least real, though one can discern even in the case of -Goethe the danger of a classicism that is too aloof from the here -and now. But the mediævalist, in so far as he is romantic, does not -turn to a mediæval reality from a real but distasteful present. Here -as elsewhere his first requirement is not that his “vision” should be -true, but that it should be rich and radiant; and the more “ideal” the -vision becomes in this sense, the wider the gap that opens between -poetry and life. - -We are thus brought back to the problem of the romantic imagination or, -one may term it, the eccentric imagination. The classical imagination, -I have said, is not free thus to fly off at a tangent, to wander wild -in some empire of chimeras. It has a centre, it is at work in the -service of reality. With reference to this real centre, it is seeking -to disengage what is normal and representative from the welter of the -actual. It does not evade the actual, but does select from it and seek -to impose upon it something of the proportion and symmetry of the -model to which it is looking up and which it is imitating. To say that -the classicist (and I am speaking of the classicist at his best) gets -at his reality with the aid of the imagination is but another way of -saying that he perceives his reality only through a veil of illusion. -The creator of this type achieves work in which illusion and reality -are inseparably blended, work which gives the “illusion of a higher -reality.” - -Proportionate and decorous in this sense æsthetic romanticism can in -no wise be, but it does not follow that the only art of which the -Rousseauist is capable is an art of idyllic dreaming. Schiller makes a -remark about Rousseau that goes very nearly to the heart of the matter: -he is either, says Schiller, dwelling on the delights of nature or -else avenging her. He is either, that is, idyllic or satirical. Now -Rousseau himself says that he was not inclined to satire and in a sense -this is true. He would have been incapable of lampooning Voltaire in -the same way that Voltaire lampooned him, though one might indeed wish -to be lampooned by Voltaire rather than to be presented as Rousseau -has presented certain persons in his “Confessions.” In all that large -portion of Rousseau’s writing, however, in which he portrays the -polite society of his time and shows how colorless and corrupt it is -compared with his pastoral dream (for his “nature,” as I have said, is -only a pastoral dream) he is highly satirical. In general, he is not -restrained, at least in the “Confessions,” from the trivial and even -the ignoble detail by any weak regard for decorum. At best decorum -seems to him a hollow convention, at worst the “varnish of vice” and -the “mask of hypocrisy.” Every reader of the “Confessions” must be -struck by the presence, occasionally on the same page, of passages -that look forward to Lamartine, and of other passages that seem an -anticipation rather of Zola. The passage in which Rousseau relates -how he was abruptly brought to earth from his “angelic loves”[69] is -typical. In short Rousseau oscillates between an Arcadian vision that -is radiant but unreal, and a photographic and literal and often sordid -reality. He does not so use his imagination as to disengage the real -from the welter of the actual and so achieve something that strikes one -still as nature but a selected and ennobled nature.[70] “It is a very -odd circumstance,” says Rousseau, “that my imagination is never more -agreeably active than when my outer conditions are the least agreeable, -and that, on the contrary, it is less cheerful when everything is -cheerful about me. My poor head cannot subordinate itself to things. It -cannot embellish, it wishes to create. Real objects are reflected in -it at best such as they are; it can adorn only imaginary objects. If I -wish to paint the springtime I must be in winter,” etc. - -This passage may be said to foreshadow the two types of art and -literature that have been prevalent since Rousseau--romantic art and -the so-called realistic art that tended to supplant it towards the -middle of the nineteenth century.[71] This so-called realism does not -represent any fundamental change of direction as compared with the -earlier romanticism; it is simply, as some one has put it, romanticism -going on all fours. The extreme of romantic unreality has always tended -to produce a sharp recoil. As the result of the wandering of the -imagination in its own realm of chimeras, one finally comes to feel -the need of refreshing one’s sense of fact; and the more trivial the -fact, the more certain one is that one’s feet are once more planted -on _terra firma_. Don Quixote is working for the triumph of Sancho -Panza. Besides this tendency of one extreme to produce the other, -there are special reasons that I shall point out more fully later for -the close relationship of the romanticism and the so-called realism -of the nineteenth century. They are both merely different aspects of -naturalism. What binds together realism and romanticism is their -common repudiation of decorum as something external and artificial. -Once get rid of decorum, or what amounts to the same thing, the -whole body of “artificial” conventions, and what will result is, -according to the romanticist, Arcadia. But what actually emerges with -the progressive weakening of the principle of restraint is _la bête -humaine_. The Rousseauist begins by walking through the world as though -it were an enchanted garden, and then with the inevitable clash between -his ideal and the real he becomes morose and embittered. Since men -have turned out not to be indiscriminately good he inclines to look -upon them as indiscriminately bad and to portray them as such. At -the bottom of much so-called realism therefore is a special type of -satire, a satire that is the product of violent emotional disillusion. -The collapse of the Revolution of 1848 produced a plentiful crop of -disillusion of this kind. No men had ever been more convinced of the -loftiness of their idealism than the Utopists of this period, or failed -more ignominiously when put to the test. All that remained, many -argued, was to turn from an ideal that had proved so disappointing -to the real, and instead of dreaming about human nature to observe -men as coolly, in Flaubert’s phrase, as though they were mastodons or -crocodiles. But what lurks most often behind this pretence to a cold -scientific impassiveness in observing human nature is a soured and -cynical emotionalism and a distinctly romantic type of imagination. The -imagination is still idealistic, still straining, that is, away from -the real, only its idealism has undergone a strange inversion; instead -of exaggerating the loveliness it exaggerates the ugliness of human -nature; it finds a sort of morose satisfaction in building for itself -not castles but dungeons in Spain. What I am saying applies especially -to the French realists who are more logical in their disillusion than -the men of other nations. They often establish the material environment -of their heroes with photographic literalness, but in their dealings -with what should be the specifically human side of these characters -they often resemble Rousseau at his worst: they put pure logic into the -service of pure emotion, and this is a way of achieving, not the real, -but a maximum of unreality. The so-called realistic writers abound in -extreme examples of the romantic imagination. The peasants of Zola -are not real, they are an hallucination. If a man is thus to let his -imagination run riot, he might, as Lemaître complains, have imagined -something more agreeable. - -The same kinship between realism and romanticism might be brought out -in a writer whom Zola claimed as his master--Balzac. I do not refer -to the side of Balzac that is related to what the French call _le -bas romantisme_--his lapses into the weird and the melodramatic, his -occasional suggestions of the claptrap of Anne Radcliffe and the Gothic -romance--but to his general thesis and his handling of it. Balzac’s -attitude towards the society of his time is, like the attitude of -Rousseau towards the society of his time, satirical, but on entirely -different grounds: he would show the havoc wrought in this society -by its revolutionary emancipation from central control of the kind -that had been provided traditionally by the monarchy and the Catholic -Church, and the consequent disruption of the family by the violent and -egoistic expansion of the individual along the lines of his ruling -passion. But Balzac’s imagination is not on the side of his thesis; -not, that is, on the side of the principle of control; on the contrary, -it revels in its vision of a world in which men are overstepping all -ethical bounds in their quest of power and pleasure, of a purely -naturalistic world that is governed solely by the law of cunning and -the law of force. His imagination is so fascinated by this vision that, -like the imagination of Rousseau, though in an entirely different way, -he simply parts company with reality. Judged by the ultimate quality of -his imagination, and this, let me repeat, is always the chief thing to -consider in a creative artist, Balzac is a sort of inverted idealist. -Compared with the black fictions he conjures up in his painting of -Paris, the actual Paris seems pale and insipid. His Paris is not real -in short, but an hallucination--a lurid land of heart’s desire. As -Leslie Stephen puts it, for Balzac Paris is hell, but then hell is the -only place worth living in. The empire of chimeras over which he holds -sway is about as far on one side of reality as George Sand’s kingdom of -dreams is on the other. George Sand, more perhaps than any other writer -of her time, continues Rousseau in his purely idyllic manner. Her -idealized peasants are not any further from the truth and are certainly -more agreeable than the peasants of Balzac, who foreshadow the peasants -of Zola. - -The writer, however, who shows the conflict between the romantic -imagination and the real better than either Balzac or Zola, better -than any other writer perhaps of the modern French movement, is -Flaubert. The fondness of this founder of realism for reality may be -inferred from a passage in one of his letters to George Sand: “I -had in my very youth a complete presentiment of life. It was like a -sickly kitchen smell escaping from a basement window.” In his attitude -towards the society of his time, he is, in the same sense, but in -a far greater degree than Rousseau, satirical. The stupidity and -mediocrity of the bourgeois are his target, just as Rousseau’s target -is the artificiality of the drawing-room. At the same time that he -shrinks back with nausea from this reality, Flaubert is like Gautier -“full of nostalgias,” even the nostalgia of the Middle Ages. “I am a -Catholic,” he exclaims, “I have in my heart something of the green -ooze of the Norman Cathedrals.” Yet he cannot acquiesce in a mediæval -or any other dream. Even Rousseau says that he was “tormented at times -by the nothingness of his chimeras.” Flaubert was tormented far more -by the nothingness of his. Perhaps indeed the predominant flavor in -Flaubert’s writing as a whole is that of an acrid disillusion. He -portrays satirically the real and at the same time mocks at the ideal -that he craves emotionally and imaginatively (this is only one of the -innumerable forms assumed by the Rousseauistic warfare between the head -and the heart). He oscillates rapidly between the pole of realism as -he conceives it, and the pole of romance, and so far as any serious -philosophy is concerned, is left suspended in the void. Madame Bovary -is the very type of the Rousseauistic idealist, misunderstood in virtue -of her exquisite faculty of feeling. She aspires to a “love beyond -all loves,” an infinite satisfaction that her commonplace husband and -environment quite deny her. At bottom Flaubert’s heart is with Madame -Bovary. “I am Madame Bovary,” he exclaims. Yet he exposes pitilessly -the “nothingness of her chimeras,” and pursues her to the very dregs -of her disillusion. I have already mentioned Flaubert’s cult for -“Don Quixote.” His intellectual origins were all there, he says; he -had known it by heart even when a boy. It has been said that “Madame -Bovary” bears the same relationship to æsthetic romanticism that “Don -Quixote” does to the romanticism of actual adventure of the Middle -Ages. Yet “Don Quixote” is the most genial, “Madame Bovary” the least -genial of masterpieces. This difference comes out no less clearly in -a comparison of M. Homais with Sancho Panza than in a comparison of -Madame Bovary with the Knight, and is so fundamental as to throw doubt -on the soundness of the whole analogy. - -In M. Homais and like figures Flaubert simply means to symbolize -contemporary life and the immeasurable abyss of platitude in which -it is losing itself through its lack of imagination and ideal. Yet -this same platitude exercises on him a horrid fascination. For his -execration of the philistine is the nearest approach in his idealism to -a positive content, to an escape from sheer emptiness and unreality. -This execration must therefore be cherished if he is to remain -convinced of his own superiority. “If it were not for my indignation,” -he confesses in one place, “I should fall flat.” Unfortunately we come -to resemble what we habitually contemplate. “By dint of railing at -idiots,” says Flaubert, “one runs the risk of becoming idiotic one’s -self.” - -In his discourse on the “Immortality of the Soul” (1659) Henry More -speaks of “that imagination which is most free, such as we use in -romantic inventions.” The price that the romantic imagination pays -for its freedom should by this time be obvious: the freer it becomes -the farther it gets away from reality. We have seen that the special -form of unreality encouraged by the æsthetic romanticism of Rousseau -is the dream of the simple life, the return to a nature that never -existed, and that this dream made its special appeal to an age that -was suffering from an excess of artificiality and conventionalism. -Before entering upon the next stage of our subject it might be well to -consider for a moment wherein the facts of primitive life, so far as -we can ascertain them, differ from Rousseau’s dream of primitive life; -why we are justified in assuming that the noble savage of Rousseau, or -the Greek of Schiller, or Hölderlin, or the man of the Middle Ages of -Novalis never had any equivalent in reality. More or less primitive men -have existed and still exist and have been carefully studied. Some of -them actually recall by various traits, their gentleness, for example, -Rousseau’s aboriginal man, and the natural pity that is supposed to -guide him. Why then will any one familiar with the facts of aboriginal -life smile when Rousseau speaks of the savage “attached to no place, -having no prescribed task, obeying no one, having no other law than his -own will,”[72] and therefore displaying independence and initiative? -The answer is of course that genuine savages are, with the possible -exception of children, the most conventional and imitative of beings. -What one takes to be natural in them is often the result of a long and, -in the Rousseauistic sense, artificial discipline. The tendency to -take for pure and unspoiled nature what is in fact a highly modified -nature is one that assumes many forms. “When you see,” says Rousseau, -“in the happiest people in the world bands of peasants regulate the -affairs of state under an oak-tree and always behave sensibly, can -you keep from despising the refinements of other nations which make -themselves illustrious and miserable with so much art and mystery?” -Rousseau is viewing these peasants through the Arcadian glamour. In -much the same way Emerson saw a proof of the consonance of democracy -with human nature in the working of the New England town-meeting. But -both Rousseau’s Swiss and Emerson’s New Englanders had been moulded by -generations of austere religious discipline and so throw little light -on the relation of democracy to human nature in itself. - -A somewhat similar illusion is that of the man who journeys into a -far country and enjoys in the highest degree the sense of romantic -strangeness. He has escaped from the convention of his own society and -is inclined to look on the men and women he meets in the foreign land -as Arcadian apparitions. But these men and women have not escaped from -_their_ convention. On the contrary, what most delights him in them -(for example, what most delighted Lafcadio Hearn in the Japanese) may -be the result of an extraordinarily minute and tyrannical discipline -imposed in the name of the general sense upon the impulses of the -individual. - -The relation of convention to primitive life is so well understood -nowadays that the Rousseauist has reversed his argument. Since -primitive folk (let us say the Bushmen of Australia) are more -conventional than the Parisian and Londoner we may infer that at some -time in the future when the ideal is at last achieved upon earth, -conventions will have disappeared entirely. But this is simply to -transfer the Golden Age from the past to the future, and also to miss -the real problem: for there is a real problem--perhaps indeed the -gravest of all problems--involved in the relation of the individual to -convention. If we are to grasp the nature of this problem we should -perceive first of all that the significant contrast is not that between -conditions more or less primitive and civilization, but that between a -civilization that does not question its conventions and a civilization -that has on the contrary grown self-conscious and critical. Thus the -Homeric Greeks, set up by Schiller as exemplars of the simple life, -were plainly subject to the conventions of an advanced civilization. -The Periclean Greeks were also highly civilized, but unlike the Homeric -Greeks, were becoming self-conscious and critical. In the same way -the European thirteenth century, in some respects the most civilized -that the world has seen, was governed by a great convention that -imposed very strict limits upon the liberty of the individual. The -critical spirit was already awake and tugging at the leashes of the -outer authority that confined it, but it did not actually break them. -Dante and St. Thomas Aquinas did not, for example, inquire into the -basis of the mediæval convention in the same way that Socrates and the -sophists inquired into the traditional opinions of Greece. But in the -eighteenth century, especially in France, and from that time down to -the present day, the revolt against convention has assumed proportions -quite comparable to anything that took place in ancient Greece. Perhaps -no other age has witnessed so many individuals who were, like Berlioz, -eager to make all traditional barriers crack in the interest of their -“genius” and its full expression. The state of nature in the name of -which Rousseau himself assailed convention, though in itself only a -chimera, a mere Arcadian projection upon the void, did indeed tend in a -rationalistic pseudo-classic age, to new forms of imaginative activity. -In the form that concerns us especially the imagination is free to give -its magic and glamour and infinitude to the emancipated emotions. This -type of romanticism did not result in any recovery of the supposed -primitive virtues, but it did bring about a revaluation of the received -notions of morality that can scarcely be studied too carefully. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -ROMANTIC MORALITY: THE IDEAL - - -The period that began in the late eighteenth century and in the midst -of which we are still living has witnessed an almost unparalleled -triumph, as I have just said, of the sense of the individual (_sens -propre_) over the general sense of mankind (_sens commun_). Even -the collectivistic schemes that have been opposed to individualism -during this period are themselves, judged by traditional standards, -violently individualistic. Now the word individualism needs as much -as any other general term to be treated Socratically: we need in the -interests of our present subject to discriminate between different -varieties of individualism. Perhaps as good a working classification -as any is to distinguish three main varieties: a man may wish to act, -or think, or feel, differently from other men, and those who are -individualistic in any one of these three main ways may have very -little in common with one another. To illustrate concretely, Milton’s -plea in his “Areopagitica” for freedom of conscience makes above all -for individualism of action. (_La foi qui n’agit pas est-ce une foi -sincère?_) Pierre Bayle, on the other hand, pleads in his Dictionary -and elsewhere for tolerance, not so much because he wishes to act or -feel in his own way as because he wishes to think his own thoughts. -Rousseau is no less obviously ready to subordinate both thought and -action to sensibility. His message is summed up once for all in the -exclamation of Faust, “Feeling is all.” He urges war on the general -sense only because of the restrictions it imposes on the free expansion -of his emotions and the enhancing of these emotions by his imagination. - -Now the warfare that Rousseau and the individualists of feeling have -waged on the general sense has meant in practice a warfare on two great -traditions, the classical and the Christian. I have already pointed out -that these two traditions, though both holding the idea of imitation, -were not entirely in accord with one another, that the imitation of -Horace differs widely from the imitation of Christ. Yet their diverging -from one another is as nothing compared with their divergence from -the individualism of the primitivist. For the man who imitates Christ -in any traditional sense this world is not an Arcadian dream but a -place of trial and probation. “Take up your cross and follow me.” The -following of this great exemplar required that the instinctive self, -which Rousseau would indulge, should be either sternly rebuked or else -mortified utterly. So far from Nature and God being one, the natural -man is so corrupt, according to the more austere Christian, that the -gap between him and the divine can be traversed only by a miracle of -grace. He should therefore live in fear and trembling as befits a being -upon whom rests the weight of the divine displeasure. “It is an humble -thing to be a man.” Humility indeed is, in the phrase of Jeremy Taylor, -the special ornament and jewel of the Christian religion, and one is -tempted to add, of all religion in so far as it is genuine. Genuine -religion must always have in some form the sense of a deep inner cleft -between man’s ordinary self and the divine. But some Christians were -more inclined from the start, as we can see in the extreme forms of -the doctrine of grace, to push their humility to an utter despair of -human nature. The historical explanation of this despair is obvious: -it is a sharp rebound from the pagan riot; an excessive immersion in -this world led to an excess of otherworldliness. At the same time -the conviction as to man’s helplessness was instilled into those, -who, like St. Augustine, had witnessed in some of its phases the slow -disintegration of the Roman Empire. Human nature had gone bankrupt; -and for centuries it needed to be administered, if I may continue the -metaphor, in receivership. The doctrine of grace was admirably adapted -to this end. - -The pagan riot from which the church reacted so sharply, was not, -however, the whole of the ancient civilization. I have already said -that there was at the heart of this civilization at its best a great -idea--the idea of proportionateness. The ancients were in short -not merely naturalistic but humanistic, and the idea of proportion -is just as fundamental in humanism as is humility in religion. -Christianity, one scarcely need add, incorporated within itself, -however disdainfully, many humanistic elements from Greek and Roman -culture. Yet it is none the less true that in his horror at the pagan -worldliness the Christian tended to fly into the opposite extreme of -unworldliness, and in this clash between naturalism and supernaturalism -the purely human virtues of mediation were thrust more or less into the -background. Yet by its very defect on the humanistic side the doctrine -of grace was perhaps all the better fitted for the administration of -human nature in receivership. For thus to make man entirely distrustful -of himself and entirely dependent on God, meant in practice to make -him entirely dependent on the Church. Man became ignorant and fanatical -in the early Christian centuries, but he also became humble, and -in the situation then existing that was after all the main thing. -The Church as receiver for human nature was thus enabled to rescue -civilization from the wreck of pagan antiquity and the welter of the -barbarian invasions. But by the very fact that the bases of life in -this world gradually grew more secure man became less otherworldly. -He gradually recovered some degree of confidence in himself. He gave -increasing attention to that side of himself that the ascetic Christian -had repressed. The achievements of the thirteenth century which mark -perhaps the culmination of Christian civilization were very splendid -not only from a religious but also from a humanistic point of view. But -although the critical spirit was already beginning to awake, it did -not at that time, as I have already said, actually break away from the -tutelage of the Church. - -This emancipation of human nature from theological restraint took place -in far greater measure at the Renaissance. Human nature showed itself -tired of being treated as a bankrupt, of being governed from without -and from above. It aspired to become autonomous. There was in so far -a strong trend in many quarters towards individualism. This rupture -with external authority meant very diverse things in practice. For -some who, in Lionardo’s phrase, had caught a glimpse of the antique -symmetry it meant a revival of genuine humanism; for others it meant -rather a revival of the pagan and naturalistic side of antiquity. Thus -Rabelais, in his extreme opposition to the monkish ideal, already -proclaims, like Rousseau, the intrinsic excellence of man, while -Calvin and others attempted to revive the primitive austerity of -Christianity that had been corrupted by the formalism of Rome. In -short, naturalistic, humanistic, and religious elements are mingled in -almost every conceivable proportion in the vast and complex movement -known as the Renaissance; all these elements indeed are often mingled -in the same individual. The later Renaissance finally arrived at what -one is tempted to call the Jesuitical compromise. There was a general -revamping of dogma and outer authority, helped forward by a society -that had taken alarm at the excesses of the emancipated individual. -If the individual consented to surrender his moral autonomy, the -Church for its part consented to make religion comparatively easy and -pleasant for him, to adapt it by casuistry and other devices to a human -nature that was determined once for all to take a less severe and -ascetic view of life. One might thus live inwardly to a great extent -on the naturalistic level while outwardly going through the motions -of a profound piety. There is an unmistakable analogy between the -hollowness of a religion of this type and the hollowness that one feels -in so much neo-classical decorum. There is also a formalistic taint -in the educational system worked out by the Jesuits--a system in all -respects so ingenious and in some respects so admirable. The Greek and -especially the Latin classics are taught in such a way as to become -literary playthings rather than the basis of a philosophy of life; a -humanism is thus encouraged that is external and rhetorical rather than -vital, and this humanism is combined with a religion that tends to -stress submission to outer authority at the expense of inwardness and -individuality. The reproach has been brought against this system that -it is equally unfitted to form a pagan hero or a Christian saint. The -reply to it was Rousseau’s educational naturalism--his exaltation of -the spontaneity and genius of the child. - -Voltaire says that every Protestant is a Pope when he has his Bible -in his hand. But in practice Protestantism has been very far from -encouraging so complete a subordination of the general sense to the -sense of the individual. In the period that elapsed between the first -forward push of individualism in the Renaissance and the second forward -push in the eighteenth century, each important Protestant group worked -out its creed or convention and knew how to make it very uncomfortable -for any one of its members who rebelled against its authority. -Protestant education was also, like that of the Jesuits, an attempt to -harmonize Christian and classical elements. - -I have already spoken elsewhere of what was menacing all these -attempts, Protestant as well as Catholic, to revive the principle -of authority, to put the general sense once more on a traditional -and dogmatic basis and impose it on the sense of the individual. The -spirit of free scientific enquiry in the Renaissance had inspired great -naturalists like Kepler and Galileo, and had had its prophet in Bacon. -So far from suffering any setback in the seventeenth century, science -had been adding conquest to conquest. The inordinate self-confidence -of the modern man would seem to be in large measure an outcome of this -steady advance of scientific discovery, just as surely as the opposite, -the extreme humility that appears in the doctrine of grace, reflects -the despair of those who had witnessed the disintegration of the -Roman Empire. The word humility, if used at all nowadays, means that -one has a mean opinion of one’s self in comparison with other men, and -not that one perceives the weakness and nothingness of human nature in -itself in comparison with what is above it. But it is not merely the -self-confidence inspired by science that has undermined the traditional -disciplines, humanistic and religious, and the attempts to mediate -between them on a traditional basis; it is not merely that science -has fascinated man’s imagination, stimulated his wonder and curiosity -beyond all bounds and drawn him away from the study of his own nature -and its special problems to the study of the physical realm. What has -been even more decisive in the overthrow of the traditional disciplines -is that science has won its triumphs not by accepting dogma and -tradition but by repudiating them, by dealing with the natural law, not -on a traditional but on a positive and critical basis. The next step -that might logically have been taken, one might suppose, would have -been to put the human law likewise on a positive and critical basis. On -the contrary the very notion that man is subject to two laws has been -obscured. The truths of humanism and religion, being very much bound -up with certain traditional forms, have been rejected along with these -forms as obsolescent prejudice, and the attempt has been made to treat -man as entirely the creature of the natural law. This means in practice -that instead of dying to his ordinary self, as the austere Christian -demands, or instead of imposing a law of decorum upon his ordinary -self, as the humanist demands, man has only to develop his ordinary -self freely. - -At the beginning, then, of the slow process that I have been tracing -down in briefest outline from mediæval Christianity, we find a pure -supernaturalism; at the end, a pure naturalism. If we are to understand -the relationship of this naturalism to the rise of a romantic morality, -we need to go back, as we have done in our study of original genius, -to the England of the early eighteenth century. Perhaps the most -important intermediary stage in the passage from a pure supernaturalism -to a pure naturalism is the great deistic movement which flourished -especially in the England of this period. Deism indeed is no new -thing. Deistic elements may be found even in the philosophy of the -Middle Ages. But for practical purposes one does not need in one’s -study of deism to go behind English thinkers like Shaftesbury and his -follower Hutcheson. Shaftesbury is a singularly significant figure. -He is not only the authentic precursor of innumerable naturalistic -moralists in England, France, and Germany, but one may also trace -in his writings the connection between modern naturalistic morality -and ancient naturalistic morality in its two main forms--Stoic and -Epicurean. The strict Christian supernaturalist had maintained that the -divine can be known to man only by the outer miracle of revelation, -supplemented by the inner miracle of grace. The deist maintains, on -the contrary, that God reveals himself also through outer nature which -he has fitted exquisitely to the needs of man, and that inwardly man -may be guided aright by his unaided thoughts and feelings (according -to the predominance of thought or feeling the deist is rationalistic -or sentimental). Man, in short, is naturally good and nature herself -is beneficent and beautiful. The deist finally pushes this harmony in -God and man and nature so far that the three are practically merged. -At a still more advanced stage God disappears, leaving only nature -and man as a modification of nature, and the deist gives way to the -pantheist who may also be either rationalistic or emotional. The -pantheist differs above all from the deist in that he would dethrone -man from his privileged place in creation, which means in practice that -he denies final causes. He no longer believes, for example, like that -sentimental deist and disciple of Rousseau, Bernardin de St. Pierre, -that Providence has arranged everything in nature with an immediate eye -to man’s welfare; that the markings on the melon, for instance, “seem -to show that it is destined for the family table.”[73] - -Rousseau himself, though eschewing this crude appeal to final causes, -scarcely got in theory at least beyond the stage of emotional deism. -The process I have been describing is illustrated better in some -aspects by Diderot who began as a translator of Shaftesbury and who -later got so far beyond mere deism that he anticipates the main ideas -of the modern evolutionist and determinist. Diderot is at once an -avowed disciple of Bacon, a scientific utilitarian in short, and also -a believer in the emancipation of the emotions. Rousseau’s attack -on science is profoundly significant for other reasons, but it is -unfortunate in that it obscures the connection that is so visible in -Diderot between the two sides of the naturalistic movement. If men had -not been so heartened by scientific progress they would have been less -ready, we may be sure, to listen to Rousseau when he affirmed that they -were naturally good. There was another reason why men were eager to -be told that they were naturally good and that they could therefore -trust the spontaneous overflow of their emotions. This reason is to be -sought in the inevitable recoil from the opposite doctrine of total -depravity and the mortal constraint that it had put on the instincts of -the natural man. I have said that many churchmen, notably the Jesuits, -sought to dissimulate the full austerity of Christian doctrine and -thus retain their authority over a world that was moving away from -austerity and so threatening to escape them. But other Catholics, -notably the Jansenists, as well as Protestants like the Calvinists, -were for insisting to the full on man’s corruption and for seeking to -maintain on this basis what one is tempted to call a theological reign -of terror. One whole side of Rousseau’s religion can be understood -only as a protest against the type of Christianity that is found in a -Pascal or a Jonathan Edwards. The legend of the abyss that Pascal saw -always yawning at his side has at least a symbolical value. It is the -wont of man to oscillate violently between extremes, and each extreme -is not only bad in itself but even worse by the opposite extreme that -it engenders. From a God who is altogether fearful, men are ready to -flee to a God who is altogether loving, or it might be more correct to -say altogether lovely. “Listen, my children,” said Mother Angélique of -Port-Royal to her nuns a few hours before her death, “listen well to -what I say. Most people do not know what death is, and never give the -matter a thought. But my worst forebodings were as nothing compared -with the terrors now upon me.” In deliberate opposition to such -expressions of the theological terror, Rousseau imagined the elaborate -complacency and self-satisfaction of the dying Julie, whose end was -not only calm but æsthetic (_le dernier jour de sa vie en fut aussi le -plus charmant_). - -A sensible member of Edwards’s congregation at Northampton might -conceivably have voted with the majority to dismiss him, not only -because he objected to this spiritual terrorism in itself, but -also because he saw the opposite extreme that it would help to -precipitate--the boundless sycophancy of human nature from which we are -now suffering. - -The effusiveness, then, that began to appear in the eighteenth century -is one sign of the progress of naturalism, which is itself due to -the new confidence inspired in man by scientific discovery coupled -with a revulsion from the austerity of Christian dogma. This new -effusiveness is also no less palpably a revulsion from the excess of -artificial decorum and this revulsion was in turn greatly promoted by -the rapid increase in power and influence at this time of the middle -class. Reserve is traditionally aristocratic. The plebeian is no less -traditionally expansive. It cannot be said that the decorous reserve -of the French aristocracy that had been more or less imitated by other -European aristocracies was in all respects commendable. According to -this decorum a man should not love his wife, or if he did, should be -careful not to betray the fact in public. It was also good “form” -to live apart from one’s children and bad form to display one’s -affection for them. The protest against a decorum that repressed even -the domestic emotions may perhaps best be followed in the rise of the -middle class drama. According to strict neo-classic decorum only the -aristocracy had the right to appear in tragedy, whereas the man of the -middle class was relegated to comedy and the man of the people to -farce. The intermediate types of play that multiply in the eighteenth -century (_drame bourgeois_, _comédie larmoyante_, etc.) are the reply -of the plebeian to this classification. He is beginning to insist that -his emotions too shall be taken seriously. But at the same time he is, -under the influence of the new naturalistic philosophy, so bent on -affirming his own goodness that in getting rid of artificial decorum -he gets rid of true decorum likewise and so strikes at the very root -of the drama. For true drama in contradistinction to mere melodrama -requires in the background a scale of ethical values, or what amounts -to the same thing, a sense of what is normal and representative and -decorous, and the quality of the characters is revealed by their -responsible choices good or bad with reference to some ethical scale, -choices that the characters reveal by their actions and not by any -explicit moralizing. But in the middle class drama there is little -action in this sense: no one _wills_ either his goodness or badness, -but appears more or less as the creature of accident or fate (in a very -un-Greek sense), or of a defective social order; and so instead of -true dramatic conflict and proper motivation one tends to get domestic -tableaux in which the characters weep in unison. For it is understood -not only that man (especially the bourgeois) is good but that the -orthodox way for this goodness to manifest itself is to overflow -through the eyes. Perhaps never before or since have tears been shed -with such a strange facility. At no other time have there been so many -persons who, with streaming eyes, called upon heaven and earth to bear -witness to their innate excellence. A man would be ashamed, says La -Bruyère, speaking from the point of view of _l’honnête homme_ and -his decorum, to display his emotions at the theatre. By the time of -Diderot he would have been ashamed not to display them. It had become -almost a requirement of good manners to weep and sob in public. At the -performance of the “Père de Famille” in 1769 we are told that every -handkerchief was in use. The Revolution seems to have raised doubts as -to the necessary connection between tearfulness and goodness. The “Père -de Famille” was hissed from the stage in 1811. Geoffroy commented in -his feuilleton: “We have learned by a fatal experience that forty years -of declamation and fustian about sensibility, humanity and benevolence, -have served only to prepare men’s hearts for the last excesses of -barbarism.” - -The romanticist indulged in the luxury of grief and was not incapable -of striking an attitude. But as a rule he disdained the facile -lachrymosity of the man of feeling as still too imitative and -conventional. For his part, he has that within which passes show. To -estimate a play solely by its power to draw tears is, as Coleridge -observes, to measure it by a virtue that it possesses in common with -the onion; and Chateaubriand makes a similar observation. Yet one -should not forget that the romantic emotionalist derives directly from -the man of feeling. One may indeed study the transition from the one -to the other in Chateaubriand himself. For example, in his early work -the “Natchez” he introduces a tribe of Sioux Indians who are still -governed by the natural pity of Rousseau, as they prove by weeping on -the slightest occasion. Lamartine again is close to Rousseau when he -expatiates on the “genius” that is to be found in a tear; and Musset -is not far from Diderot when he exclaims, “Long live the melodrama at -which Margot wept” (_Vive le mélodrame où Margot a pleuré_). - -Though it is usual to associate this effusiveness with Rousseau it -should be clear from my brief sketch of the rise of the forces that -were destined to overthrow the two great traditions--the Christian -tradition with its prime emphasis on humility and the classical with -its prime emphasis on decorum--that Rousseau had many forerunners. It -would be easy enough, for example, to cite from English literature -of the early eighteenth-century domestic tableaux[74] that look -forward equally to the middle class drama and to Rousseau’s picture -of the virtues of Julie as wife and mother. Yet Rousseau, after all, -deserves his preëminent position as the arch-sentimentalist by the -very audacity of his revolt in the name of feeling from both humility -and decorum. Never before and probably never since has a man of such -undoubted genius shown himself so lacking in humility and decency -(to use the old-fashioned synonym for decorum) as Rousseau in the -“Confessions.” Rousseau feels himself so good that he is ready as he -declares to appear before the Almighty at the sound of the trump of -the last judgment, with the book of his “Confessions” in his hand, -and there to issue a challenge to the whole human race: “Let a single -one assert to Thee if he dare: I am better than that man.” As Horace -Walpole complains he meditates a gasconade for the end of the world. -It is possible to maintain with M. Lemaître that Rousseau’s character -underwent a certain purification as he grew older, but never at any -time, either at the beginning or at the end, is it possible, as M. -Lemaître admits, to detect an atom of humility--an essential lack that -had already been noted by Burke. - -The affront then that Rousseau puts upon humility at the very opening -of his “Confessions” has like so much else in his life and writings -a symbolical value. He also declares war in the same passage in the -name of what he conceives to be his true self--that is his emotional -self--against decorum or decency. I have already spoken of one of -the main objections to decorum: it keeps one tame and conventional -and interferes with the explosion of original genius. Another and -closely allied grievance against decorum is implied in Rousseau’s -opening assertion in the Confessions that his aim is to show a man -in all the truth of his nature, and human nature can be known in -its truth only, it should seem, when stripped of its last shred of -reticence. Rousseau therefore already goes on the principle recently -proclaimed by the Irish Bohemian George Moore, that the only thing a -man should be ashamed of is of being ashamed. If the first objection to -decorum--that it represses original genius--was urged especially by the -romanticists, the second objection--that decorum interferes with truth -to nature--was urged especially by the so-called realists of the later -nineteenth century (and realism of this type is, as has been said, only -romanticism going on all fours). Between the Rousseauistic conception -of nature and that of the humanist the gap is especially wide. The -humanist maintains that man attains to the truth of his nature only by -imposing decorum upon his ordinary self. The Rousseauist maintains that -man attains to this truth only by the free expansion of his ordinary -self. The humanist fears to let his ordinary self unfold freely at the -expense of decorum lest he merit some such comment as that made on -the “Confessions” by Madame de Boufflers who had been infatuated with -Rousseau during his lifetime: that it was the work not of a man but of -an unclean animal.[75] - -The passages of the “Confessions” that deserve this verdict do not, it -is hardly necessary to add, reflect directly Rousseau’s moral ideal. -In his dealings with morality as elsewhere he is, to come back to -Schiller’s distinction, partly idyllic and partly satirical. He is -satiric in his attitude towards the existing forms--forms based upon -the Christian tradition that man is naturally sinful and that he needs -therefore the discipline of fear and humility, or else forms based upon -the classical tradition that man is naturally one-sided and that he -needs therefore to be disciplined into decorum and proportionateness. -He is idyllic in the substitutes that he would offer for these -traditional forms. The substitutes are particularly striking in their -refusal to allow any place for fear. Fear, according to Ovid, created -the first Gods, and religion has been defined by an old English poet -as the “mother of form and fear.” Rousseau would put in the place of -form a fluid emotionalism, and as for fear, he would simply cast it -out entirely, a revulsion, as I have pointed out, from the excessive -emphasis on fear in the more austere forms of Christianity. Be -“natural,” Rousseau says, and eschew priests and doctors, and you will -be emancipated from fear. - -Rousseau’s expedient for getting rid of man’s sense of his own -sinfulness on which fear and humility ultimately rest is well known. -Evil, says Rousseau, foreign to man’s constitution, is introduced into -it from without. The burden of guilt is thus conveniently shifted upon -society. Instead of the old dualism between good and evil in the breast -of the individual, a new dualism is thus set up between an artificial -and corrupt society and “nature.” For man, let me repeat, has, -according to Rousseau, fallen from nature in somewhat the same way as -in the old theology he fell from God, and it is here that the idyllic -element comes in, for, let us remind ourselves once more, Rousseau’s -nature from which man has fallen is only an Arcadian dream. - -The assertion of man’s natural goodness is plainly something very -fundamental in Rousseau, but there is something still more fundamental, -and that is the shifting of dualism itself, the virtual denial of a -struggle between good and evil in the breast of the individual. That -deep inner cleft in man’s being on which religion has always put so -much emphasis is not genuine. Only get away from an artificial society -and back to nature and the inner conflict which is but a part of the -artificiality will give way to beauty and harmony. In a passage in his -“Supplément au voyage de Bougainville,” Diderot puts the underlying -thesis of the new morality almost more clearly than Rousseau: “Do -you wish to know in brief the tale of almost all our woe? There once -existed a natural man; there has been introduced within this man an -artificial man and there has arisen in the cave a civil war which lasts -throughout life.” - -The denial of the reality of the “civil war in the cave” involves an -entire transformation of the conscience. The conscience ceases to be -a power that sits in judgment on the ordinary self and inhibits its -impulses. It tends so far as it is recognized at all, to become itself -an instinct and an emotion. Students of the history of ethics scarcely -need to be told that this transformation of the conscience was led up -to by the English deists, especially by Shaftesbury and his disciple -Hutcheson.[76] Shaftesbury and Hutcheson are already æsthetic in all -senses of the word; æsthetic in that they tend to base conduct upon -feeling, and æsthetic in that they incline to identify the good and -the beautiful. Conscience is ceasing for both of them to be an inner -check on the impulses of the individual and becoming a moral _sense_, a -sort of expansive instinct for doing good to others. Altruism, as thus -conceived, is opposed by them to the egoism of Hobbes and his followers. - -But for the full implications of this transformation of conscience -and for æsthetic morality in general one needs to turn to Rousseau. -Most men according to Rousseau are perverted by society, but there -are a few in whom the voice of “nature” is still strong and who, to -be good and at the same time beautiful, have only to let themselves -go. These, to use a term that came to have in the eighteenth century -an almost technical meaning, are the “beautiful souls.” The _belle -âme_ is practically indistinguishable from the _âme sensible_ and has -many points in common with the original genius. Those whose souls are -beautiful are a small transfigured band in the midst of a philistine -multitude. They are not to be judged by the same rules as those of -less exquisite sensibility. “There are unfortunates too privileged to -follow the common pathway.”[77] The beautiful soul is unintelligible -to those of coarser feelings. His very superiority, his preternatural -fineness of sensation, thus predestines him to suffering. We are here -at the root of romantic melancholy as will appear more fully later. - -The most important aspect of the whole conception is, however, the -strictly ethical--the notion that the beautiful soul has only to be -instinctive and temperamental to merit the praise that has in the past -been awarded only to the purest spirituality. “As for Julie,” says -Rousseau, “who never had any other guide but her heart and could have -no surer guide, she gives herself up to it without scruple, and to do -right, has only to do all that it asks of her.”[78] Virtue indeed, -according to Rousseau, is not merely an instinct but a passion and -even a voluptuous passion, moving in the same direction as other -passions, only superior to them in vehemence. “Cold reason has never -done anything illustrious; and you can triumph over the passions only -by opposing them to one another. When the passion of virtue arises, it -dominates everything and holds everything in equipoise.”[79] - -This notion of the soul that is spontaneously beautiful and therefore -good made an especial appeal to the Germans and indeed is often -associated with Germany more than with any other land.[80] But examples -of moral æstheticism are scarcely less frequent elsewhere from -Rousseau to the present. No one, for example, was ever more convinced -of the beauty of his own soul than Renan. “Morality,” says Renan, “has -been conceived up to the present in a very narrow spirit, as obedience -to a law, as an inner struggle between opposite laws. As for me, I -declare that when I do good I obey no one, I fight no battle and win no -victory. The cultivated man has only to follow the delicious incline of -his inner impulses.”[81] Therefore, as he says elsewhere, “Be beautiful -and then do at each moment whatever your heart may inspire you to do. -This is the whole of morality.”[82] - -The doctrine of the beautiful soul is at once a denial and a parody -of the doctrine of grace; a denial because it rejects original sin; -a parody because it holds that the beautiful soul acts aright, not -through any effort of its own but because nature acts in it and through -it even as a man in a state of grace acts aright not through any merit -of his own but because God acts in him and through him. The man who -saw everything from the angle of grace was, like the beautiful soul or -the original genius, inclined to look upon himself as exceptional and -superlative. Bunyan entitles the story of his own inner life “Grace -abounding to the chief of sinners.” But Bunyan flatters himself. It -is not easy to be chief in such a lively competition. Humility and -pride were evidently in a sort of grapple with one another in the -breast of the Jansenist who declared that God had killed three men -in order to compass his salvation. In the case of the beautiful soul -the humility disappears, but the pride remains. He still looks upon -himself as superlative but superlative in goodness. If all men were -like himself, Renan declares, it would be appropriate to say of them: -Ye are Gods and sons of the most high.[83] The partisan of grace holds -that works are of no avail compared with the gratuitous and unmerited -illumination from above. The beautiful soul clings to his belief in -his own innate excellence, no matter how flagrant the contradiction -may be between this belief and his deeds. One should not fail to note -some approximation to the point of view of the beautiful soul in those -forms of Christianity in which the sense of sin is somewhat relaxed -and the inner light very much emphasized--for example among the German -pietists and the quietists of Catholic countries.[84] We even hear of -persons claiming to be Christians who as the result of debauchery have -experienced a spiritual awakening (_Dans la brute assoupie, un ange se -réveille_). But such doctrines are mere excrescences and eccentricities -in the total history of Christianity. Even in its extreme insistence -on grace, Christianity has always tended to supplement rather than -contradict the supreme maxim of humanistic morality as enunciated by -Cicero: “The whole praise of virtue is in action.” The usual result -of the doctrine of grace when sincerely held is to make a man feel -desperately sinful at the same time that he is less open to reproach -than other men in his actual behavior. The beautiful soul on the -other hand can always take refuge in his feelings from his real -delinquencies. According to Joubert, Chateaubriand was not disturbed -by actual lapses in his conduct because of his persuasion of his own -innate rectitude.[85] “Her conduct was reprehensible,” says Rousseau -of Madame de Warens, “but her heart was pure.” It does not matter -what you do if only through it all you preserve the sense of your own -loveliness. Indeed the more dubious the act the more copious would -seem to be the overflow of fine sentiments to which it stimulates -the beautiful soul. Rousseau dilates on his “warmth of heart,” his -“keenness of sensibility,” his “innate benevolence for his fellow -creatures,” his “ardent love for the great, the true, the beautiful, -the just,” on the “melting feeling, the lively and sweet emotion that -he experiences at the sight of everything that is virtuous, generous -and lovely,” and concludes: “And so my third child was put into the -foundling hospital.” - -If we wish to see the psychology of Rousseau writ large we should turn -to the French Revolution. That period abounds in persons whose goodness -is in theory so superlative that it overflows in a love for all men, -but who in practice are filled like Rousseau in his later years with -universal suspicion. There was indeed a moment in the Revolution when -the madness of Rousseau became epidemic, when suspicion was pushed -to such a point that men became “suspect of being suspect.” One of -the last persons to see Rousseau alive at Ermenonville was Maximilien -Robespierre. He was probably a more thoroughgoing Rousseauist than -any other of the Revolutionary leaders. Perhaps no passage that could -be cited illustrates with more terrible clearness the tendency of the -new morality to convert righteousness into self-righteousness than -the following from his last speech before the Convention at the very -height of the Reign of Terror. Himself devoured by suspicion, he is -repelling the suspicion that he wishes to erect his own power on the -ruins of the monarchy. The idea, he says, that “he can descend to the -infamy of the throne will appear probable only to those perverse beings -who have not even the right to believe in virtue. But why speak of -virtue? Doubtless virtue is a natural passion. But how could they be -familiar with it, these venal spirits who never yielded access to aught -save cowardly and ferocious passions? … Yet virtue exists as you can -testify, feeling and pure souls; it exists, that tender, irresistible, -imperious passion, torment and delight of magnanimous hearts, that -profound horror of tyranny, that compassionate zeal for the oppressed, -that sacred love for one’s country, that still more sublime and -sacred love for humanity, without which a great revolution is only a -glittering crime that destroys another crime; it exists, that generous -ambition to found on earth the first Republic of the world; that egoism -of undegenerate men who find a celestial voluptuousness in the calm of -a pure conscience and the ravishing spectacle of public happiness(!). -You feel it at this moment burning in your souls. I feel it in mine. -But how could our vile calumniators have any notion of it?” etc. - -In Robespierre and other revolutionary leaders one may study the -implications of the new morality--the attempt to transform virtue into -a natural passion--not merely for the individual but for society. M. -Rod entitled his play on Rousseau “The Reformer.” Both Rousseau and his -disciple Robespierre were reformers in the modern sense,--that is they -are concerned not with reforming themselves, but other men. Inasmuch -as there is no conflict between good and evil in the breast of the -beautiful soul he is free to devote all his efforts to the improvement -of mankind, and he proposes to achieve this great end by diffusing the -spirit of brotherhood. All the traditional forms that stand in the way -of this free emotional expansion he denounces as mere “prejudices,” -and inclines to look on those who administer these forms as a gang of -conspirators who are imposing an arbitrary and artificial restraint on -the natural goodness of man and so keeping it from manifesting itself. -With the final disappearance of the prejudices of the past and those -who base their usurped authority upon them, the Golden Age will be -ushered in at last; everybody will be boundlessly self-assertive and -at the same time temper this self-assertion by an equally boundless -sympathy for others, whose sympathy and self-assertion likewise know no -bounds. The world of Walt Whitman will be realized, a world in which -there is neither inferior nor superior but only comrades. This vision -(such for example as appears at the end of Shelley’s “Prometheus”) of -a humanity released from all evil artificially imposed from without, -a humanity “where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea” and -“whose nature is its own divine control,” is the true religion of the -Rousseauist. It is this image of a humanity glorified through love -that he sets up for worship in the sanctuary left vacant by “the great -absence of God.” - -This transformation of the Arcadian dreamer into the Utopist is due -in part, as I have already suggested, to the intoxication produced -in the human spirit by the conquests of science. One can discern the -coöperation of Baconian and Rousseauist from a very early stage of the -great humanitarian movement in the midst of which we are still living. -Both Baconian and Rousseauist are interested not in the struggle -between good and evil in the breast of the individual, but in the -progress of mankind as a whole. If the Rousseauist hopes to promote -the progress of society by diffusing the spirit of brotherhood the -Baconian or utilitarian hopes to achieve the same end by perfecting -its machinery. It is scarcely necessary to add that these two main -types of humanitarianism may be contained in almost any proportion in -any particular person. By his worship of man in his future material -advance, the Baconian betrays no less surely than the Rousseauist his -faith in man’s natural goodness. This lack of humility is especially -conspicuous in those who have sought to develop the positive -observations of science into a closed system with the aid of logic and -pure mathematics. Pascal already remarked sarcastically of Descartes -that he had no need of God except to give an initial fillip to his -mechanism. Later the mechanist no longer grants the need of the initial -fillip. According to the familiar anecdote, La Place when asked by -Napoleon in the course of an explanation of his “Celestial Mechanics” -where God came in, replied that he had no need of a God in his system. -As illustrating the extreme of humanitarian arrogance one may take -the following from the physicist and mathematician, W. K. Clifford: -“The dim and shadowy outlines of the superhuman deity fade slowly from -before us; and as the mist of his presence floats aside, we perceive -with greater and greater clearness the shape of a yet grander and -nobler figure--of Him who made all gods and shall unmake them. From -the dim dawn of history and from the inmost depths of every soul the -face of our father Man looks out upon us with the fire of eternal youth -in his eyes and says, ‘Before Jehovah was, I am.’” The fire, one is -tempted to say, of eternal lust! Clifford is reported to have once hung -by his toes from the cross-bar of a weathercock on a church-tower. As -a bit of intellectual acrobatics the passage I have just quoted has -some analogy with this posture. Further than this, man’s intoxication -with himself is not likely to go. The attitude of Clifford is even more -extreme in its way than that of Jonathan Edwards in his. However, there -are already signs that the man of science is becoming, if not humble, -at least a trifle less arrogant. - -One can imagine the Rousseauist interrupting at this point to remark -that one of his chief protests has always been against the mechanical -and utilitarian and in general the scientific attitude towards life. -This is true. Something has already been said about this protest and -it will be necessary to say more about it later. Yet Rousseauist and -Baconian agree, as I have said, in turning away from the “civil war in -the cave” to humanity in the lump. They agree in being more or less -rebellious towards the traditional forms that put prime emphasis on -the “civil war in the cave”--whether the Christian tradition with its -humility or the classical with its decorum. No wonder Prometheus was -the great romantic hero. Prometheus was at once a rebel, a lover of man -and a promoter of man’s material progress. We have been living for over -a century in what may be termed an age of Promethean individualism. - -The Rousseauist especially feels an inner kinship with Prometheus and -other Titans. He is fascinated by every form of insurgency. Cain and -Satan are both romantic heroes. To meet the full romantic requirement, -however, the insurgent must also be tender-hearted. He must show an -elemental energy in his explosion against the established order and -at the same time a boundless sympathy for the victims of it. One of -Hugo’s poems tells of a Mexican volcano, that in sheer disgust at -the cruelty of the members of the Inquisition, spits lava upon them. -This compassionate volcano symbolizes in both of its main aspects -the romantic ideal. Hence the enormous international popularity -of Schiller’s “Robbers.” One may find innumerable variants of the -brigand Karl Moor who uses his plunder “to support meritorious young -men at college.” The world into which we enter from the very dawn of -romanticism is one of “glorious rascals,” and “beloved vagabonds.” - - “Sublime convicts,” says M. Lasserre, “idlers of genius, - angelic female poisoners, monsters inspired by God, sincere - comedians, virtuous courtesans, metaphysical mountebanks, - faithful adulterers, form only one half--the sympathetic half - of humanity according to romanticism. The other half, the - wicked half, is manufactured by the same intellectual process - under the suggestion of the same revolutionary instinct. - It comprises all those who hold or stand for a portion of - any discipline whatsoever, political, religious, moral or - intellectual--kings, ministers, priests, judges, soldiers, - policemen, husbands and critics.”[86] - -The Rousseauist is ever ready to discover beauty of soul in any one -who is under the reprobation of society. The figure of the courtesan -rehabilitated through love that has enjoyed such popularity during the -past hundred years goes back to Rousseau himself.[87] The underlying -assumption of romantic morality is that the personal virtues, the -virtues that imply self-control, count as naught compared with the -fraternal spirit and the readiness to sacrifice one’s self for -others. This is the ordinary theme of the Russian novel in which -one finds, as Lemaître remarks, “the Kalmuck exaggerations of our -French romantic ideas.” For example Sonia in “Crime and Punishment” -is glorified because she prostitutes herself to procure a livelihood -for her family. One does not however need to go to Russia for what is -scarcely less the assumption of contemporary America. If it can only -be shown that a person is sympathetic we are inclined to pardon him -his sins of unrestraint, his lack, for example, of common honesty. -As an offset to the damaging facts brought out at the investigation -of the sugar trust, the defense sought to establish that the late H. -O. Havemeyer was a beautiful soul. It was testified that he could -never hear little children sing without tears coming into his eyes. -His favorite song, some one was unkind enough to suggest, was “little -drops of water, little grains of sand.” The newspapers again reported -not long ago that a notorious Pittsburg grafter had petitioned for -his release from the penitentiary on the grounds that he wished to -continue his philanthropic activities among the poor. Another paragraph -that appeared recently in the daily press related that a burglar while -engaged professionally in a house at Los Angeles discovered that the -lady of the house had a child suffering from croup, and at once came to -her aid, explaining that he had six children of his own. No one could -really think amiss of this authentic descendant of Schiller’s Karl -Moor. For love, according to the Rousseauist, is not the fulfillment -of the law but a substitute for it. In “Les Misérables” Hugo contrasts -Javert who stands for the old order based on obedience to the law -with the convict Jean Valjean who stands for the new regeneration of -man through love and self-sacrifice. When Javert awakens to the full -ignominy of his rôle he does the only decent thing--he commits suicide. -Hugo indeed has perhaps carried the new evangel of sympathy as a -substitute for all the other virtues further than any one else and with -fewer weak concessions to common sense. Sultan Murad, Hugo narrates, -was “sublime.” He had his eight brothers strangled, caused his uncle to -be sawn in two between two planks, opened one after the other twelve -children to find a stolen apple, shed an ocean of blood and “sabred the -world.” One day while passing in front of a butcher-shop he saw a pig -bleeding to death, tormented by flies and with the sun beating upon -its wound. Touched by pity, the Sultan pushes the pig into the shade -with his foot and with an “enormous and superhuman gesture” drives away -the flies. When Murad dies the pig appears before the Almighty and, -pleading for him against the accusing host of his victims, wins his -pardon. Moral: “A succored pig outweighs a world oppressed”[88] (_Un -pourceau secouru vaut un monde égorgé_). - -This subordination of all the other values of life to sympathy is -achieved only at the expense of the great humanistic virtue--decorum -or a sense of proportion. Now not to possess a sense of proportion is, -however this lack may be manifested, to be a pedant; and, if there is -ever a humanistic reaction, Hugo, one of the chief products of the age -of original genius, will scarcely escape the charge of pedantry. But -true religion also insists on a hierarchy of the virtues. Burke speaks -at least as much from a religious as from a humanistic point of view -when he writes: - - “The greatest crimes do not arise so much from a want of - feeling for others as from an over-sensibility for ourselves - and an over-indulgence to our own desires. … They [the - ‘philosophes’] explode or render odious or contemptible that - class of virtues which restrain the appetite. These are at - least nine out of ten of the virtues. In the place of all - this they substitute a virtue which they call humanity or - benevolence. By these means their morality has no idea in it - of restraint or indeed of a distinct and settled principle of - any kind. When their disciples are thus left free and guided - only by present feeling, they are no longer to be depended - on for good and evil. The men who to-day snatch the worst - criminals from justice will murder the most innocent persons - to-morrow.”[89] - -The person who seeks to get rid of ninety per cent of the virtues in -favor of an indiscriminate sympathy does not simply lose his scale of -values. He arrives at an inverted scale of values. For the higher the -object for which one feels sympathy the more the idea of obligation -is likely to intrude--the very thing the Rousseauist is seeking to -escape. One is more irresponsible and therefore more spontaneous in the -Rousseauistic sense in lavishing one’s pity on a dying pig. Medical -men have given a learned name to the malady of those who neglect the -members of their own family and gush over animals (zoöphilpsychosis). -But Rousseau already exhibits this “psychosis.” He abandoned his five -children one after the other, but had we are told an unspeakable -affection for his dog.[90] - -Rousseau’s contemporary, Sterne, is supposed to have lavished a -somewhat disproportionate emotion upon an ass. But the ass does -not really come into his own until a later stage of the movement. -Nietzsche has depicted the leaders of the nineteenth century as -engaged in a veritable onolatry or ass-worship. The opposition between -neo-classicist and Rousseauist is indeed symbolized in a fashion by -their respective attitude towards the ass. Neo-classical decorum -was, it should be remembered, an all-pervading principle. It imposed -a severe hierarchy, not only upon objects, but upon the words that -express these objects. The first concern of the decorous person was to -avoid lowness, and the ass he looked upon as hopelessly low--so low -as to be incapable of ennoblement even by a resort to periphrasis. -Homer therefore was deemed by Vida to have been guilty of outrageous -indecorum in comparing Ajax to an ass. The partisans of Homer sought -indeed to prove that the ass was in the time of Homer a “noble” animal -or at least that the word ass was “noble.” But the stigma put upon -Homer by Vida--reinforced as it was by the similar attacks of Scaliger -and others--remained. - -The rehabilitation of the ass by the Rousseauist is at once a protest -against an unduly squeamish decorum, and a way of proclaiming the new -principle of unbounded expansive sympathy. In dealing with both words -and what they express, one should show a democratic inclusiveness. -Something has already been said of the war the romanticist waged in -the name of local color against the impoverishment of vocabulary by -the neo-classicists. But the romantic warfare against the aristocratic -squeamishness of the neo-classic vocabulary goes perhaps even deeper. -Take, for instance, Wordsworth’s view as to the proper language of -poetry. Poetical decorum had become by the end of the eighteenth -century a mere varnish of conventional elegance. Why should mere -polite prejudice, so Wordsworth reasoned, and the “gaudiness and inane -phraseology” in which it resulted be allowed to interfere with the -“spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion”? And so he proceeds to set -up a view of poetry that is only the neo-classical view turned upside -down. For the proper subjects and speech of poetry he would turn from -the highest class of society to the lowest, from the aristocrat to -the peasant. The peasant is more poetical than the aristocrat because -he is closer to nature, for Wordsworth as he himself avows, is less -interested in the peasant for his own sake than because he sees in him -a sort of emanation of the landscape.[91] - -One needs to keep all this background in mind if one wishes to -understand the full significance of a poem like “Peter Bell.” -Scaliger blames Homer because he stoops to mention in his description -of Zeus something so trivial as the eyebrows. Wordsworth seeks to -bestow poetical dignity and seriousness on the “long left ear” of an -ass.[92] The ass is thus exalted one scarcely need add, because of -his compassionateness. The hard heart of Peter Bell is at last melted -by the sight of so much goodness. He aspires to be like the ass and -finally achieves his wish. - -The French romanticists, Hugo, for instance, make an attack on decorum -somewhat similar to that of Wordsworth. Words formerly lived, says -Hugo, divided up into castes. Some had the privilege of mounting into -the king’s coaches at Versailles, whereas others were relegated to -the rabble. I came along and clapped a red liberty cap on the old -dictionary. I brought about a literary ’93,[93] etc. Hugo’s attack -on decorum is also combined with an even more violent assertion than -Wordsworth’s of the ideal of romantic morality--the supremacy of pity. -He declares in the “Legend of the Ages” that an ass that takes a step -aside to avoid crushing a toad is “holier than Socrates and greater -than Plato.”[94] For this and similar utterances Hugo deserves to be -placed very nearly if not quite at the head of romantic onolaters. - -We have said that the tremendous burden put upon sympathy in romantic -morality is a result of the assumption that the “civil war in the cave” -is artificial and that therefore the restraining virtues (according -to Burke ninety per cent of the virtues) which imply this warfare -are likewise artificial. If the civil war in the cave should turn -out to be not artificial but a fact of the gravest import, the whole -spiritual landscape would change immediately. Romantic morality would -in that case be not a reality but a mirage. We need at all events to -grasp the central issue firmly. Humanism and religion have always -asserted in some form or other the dualism of the human spirit. A man’s -spirituality is in inverse ratio to his immersion in temperament. The -whole movement from Rousseau to Bergson is, on the other hand, filled -with the glorification of instinct. To become spiritual the beautiful -soul needs only to expand along the lines of temperament and with this -process the cult of pity or sympathy does not interfere. The romantic -moralist tends to favor expansion on the ground that it is vital, -creative, infinite, and to dismiss whatever seems to set bounds to -expansion as something inert, mechanical, finite. In its onslaughts on -the veto power whether within or without the breast of the individual -it is plain that no age has ever approached the age of original -genius in the midst of which we are still living. Goethe defines the -devil as the spirit that always says no, and Carlyle celebrates his -passage from darkness to light as an escape from the Everlasting Nay -to the Everlasting Yea. We rarely pause to consider what a reversal -of traditional wisdom is implied in such conceptions. In the past, -the spirit that says no has been associated rather with the divine. -Socrates tells us that the counsels of his “voice” were always -negative, never positive.[95] According to the ancient Hindu again the -divine is the “inner check.” God, according to Aristotle, is pure Form. -In opposition to all this emphasis on the restricting and limiting -power, the naturalist, whether scientific or emotional, sets up a -program of formless, fearless expansion; which means in practice that -he recognizes no bounds either to intellectual or emotional curiosity. - -I have said that it is a part of the psychology of the original genius -to offer the element of wonder and surprise awakened by the perpetual -novelty, the infinite otherwiseness of things, as a substitute for -the awe that is associated with their infinite oneness; or rather to -refuse to discriminate between these two infinitudes and so to confound -the two main directions of the human spirit, its religious East, as -one may say, with its West of wonder and romance. This confusion may -be illustrated by the romantic attitude towards what is perhaps the -most Eastern of all Eastern lands,--India. The materials for the study -of India in the Occident were accumulated by Englishmen towards the -end of the eighteenth century, but the actual interpretation of this -material is due largely to German romanticists, notably to Friedrich -Schlegel.[96] Alongside the romantic Hellenist and the romantic -mediævalist we find the romantic Indianist. It is to India even more -than to Spain that one needs to turn, says Friedrich Schlegel, for the -supremely romantic[97]--that is, the wildest and most unrestrained -luxuriance of imagination. Now in a country so vast and so ancient as -India you can find in some place or at some period or other almost -anything you like. If, for example, W. B. Yeats waxes enthusiastic -over Tagore we may be sure that there is in the work of Tagore -something akin to æsthetic romanticism. But if we take India at the top -of her achievement in the early Buddhistic movement, let us say, we -shall find something very different. The early Buddhistic movement in -its essential aspects is at the extreme opposite pole from romanticism. -The point is worth making because certain misinterpretations that -still persist both of Buddhism and other movements in India can -be traced ultimately to the bad twist that was given to the whole -subject by romanticists like the Schlegels. The educated Frenchman, -for instance, gets his ideas of India largely from certain poems of -Leconte de Lisle who reflects the German influence. But the sense of -universal and meaningless flux that pervades these poems without any -countervailing sense of a reality behind the shows of nature is a -product of romanticism, working in coöperation with science, and is -therefore antipodal to the absorption of the true Hindu in the oneness -of things. We are told, again, that Schopenhauer was a Buddhist. Did -he not have an image of Buddha in his bedroom? But no doctrine perhaps -is more remote from the genuine doctrine of Buddha than that of this -soured and disillusioned romanticist. The nature of true Buddhism and -its opposition to all forms of romanticism is worth dwelling on for -a moment. Buddha not only asserted the human law with unusual power -but he also did what, in the estimation of some, needs doing in our -own day--he put this law, not on a traditional, but on a positive and -critical basis. This spiritual positivism of Buddha is, reduced to its -simplest terms, a psychology of desire. Not only is the world outside -of man in a constant state of flux and change, but there is an element -within man that is in constant flux and change also and makes itself -felt practically as an element of expansive desire. What is unstable in -him longs for what is unstable in the outer world. But he may escape -from the element of flux and change, nay he must aspire to do so, if -he wishes to be released from sorrow. This is to substitute the noble -for the ignoble craving. The permanent or ethical element in himself -towards which he should strive to move is known to him practically as a -power of inhibition or inner check upon expansive desire. Vital impulse -(_élan vital_) may be subjected to vital control (_frein vital_). Here -is the Buddhist equivalent of the “civil war in the cave” that the -romanticist denies. Buddha does not admit a soul in man in the sense -that is often given to the word, but on this opposition between vital -impulse and vital control as a psychological fact he puts his supreme -emphasis. The man who drifts supinely with the current of desire is -guilty according to Buddha of the gravest of all vices--spiritual or -moral indolence (_pamāda_). He on the contrary who curbs or reins in -his expansive desires is displaying the chief of all the virtues, -spiritual vigilance or strenuousness (_appamāda_). The man who is -spiritually strenuous has entered upon the “path.” The end of this -path and the goal of being cannot be formulated in terms of the finite -intellect, any more than the ocean can be put into a cup. But progress -on the path may be known by its fruits--negatively by the extinction of -the expansive desires (the literal meaning of Nirvâna), positively by -an increase in peace, poise, centrality. - -A man’s rank in the scale of being is, then, according to the Buddhist -determined by the quality of his desires; and it is within his power to -determine whether he shall let them run wild or else control them to -some worthy end. We hear of the fatalistic East, but no doctrine was -ever less fatalistic than that of Buddha. No one ever put so squarely -upon the individual what the individual is ever seeking to evade--the -burden of moral responsibility. “Self is the lord of self. Who else -can be the lord? … You yourself must make the effort. The Buddhas are -only teachers.”[98] But does not all this emphasis on self, one may -ask, tend to hardness and indifference towards others, towards the -undermining of that compassion to which the romantic moralist is ready -to sacrifice all the other virtues? Buddha may be allowed to speak for -himself: “Even as a mother cherishes her child, her only child, so let -a man cultivate a boundless love towards all beings.”[99] Buddha thus -seems to fulfil Pascal’s requirement for a great man: he unites in -himself opposite virtues and occupies all the space between them. - -Enough has been said to make plain that the infinite indeterminate -desire of the romanticist and the Buddhist repression of desire are the -most different things conceivable. Chateaubriand it has been said was -an “invincibly restless soul,” a soul of desire (_une âme de désir_), -but these phrases are scarcely more applicable to him than to many -other great romanticists. They are fitly symbolized by the figures that -pace to and fro in the Hall of Eblis and whose hearts are seen through -their transparent bosoms to be lapped in the flames of unquenchable -longing. The romanticist indeed bases, as I have said, on the very -intensity of his longing his claims to be an idealist and even a -mystic. William Blake, for example, has been proclaimed a true mystic. -The same term has also been applied to Buddha. Without pretending to -have fathomed completely so unfathomable a being as Buddha or even the -far less unfathomable William Blake, one may nevertheless assert with -confidence that Buddha and Blake stand for utterly incompatible views -of life. If Blake is a mystic then Buddha must be something else. To -be assured on this point one needs only to compare the “Marriage of -Heaven and Hell” with the “Dhammapada,” an anthology of some of the -most authentic and authoritative material in early Buddhism. “He who -desires but acts not, breeds pestilence. … The road of excess leads -to the palace of wisdom,” says Blake. “Even in heavenly pleasures he -finds no satisfaction; the disciple who is fully awakened delights -only in the destruction of all desires. … Good is restraint in all -things,” says Buddha. Buddha would evidently have dismissed Blake as -a madman, whereas Blake would have looked on Buddhism as the ultimate -abomination. My own conviction is that Buddha was a genuine sage well -worthy of the homage rendered him by multitudes of men for more than -twenty-four centuries, whereas Blake was only a romantic æsthete who -was moving in his imaginative activity towards madness and seems at the -end actually to have reached the goal. - -I have been going thus far afield to ancient India and to Buddha, not -that I might, like a recent student of Buddhism, enjoy “the strangeness -of the intellectual landscape,” but on the contrary that I might -suggest that there is a centre of normal human experience and that -Buddhism, at least in its ethical aspects, is nearer to this centre -than æsthetic romanticism. Buddha might perhaps marvel with more -reason at our strangeness than we at his. Buddha’s assertion of man’s -innate moral laziness in particular accords more closely with what -most of us have experienced than Rousseau’s assertion of man’s natural -goodness. This conception of the innate laziness of man seems to me -indeed so central that I am going to put it at the basis of the point -of view I am myself seeking to develop, though this point of view is -not primarily Buddhistic. This conception has the advantage of being -positive rather than dogmatic. It works out in practice very much like -the original sin of the Christian theologian. The advantage of starting -with indolence rather than sin is that many men will admit that they -are morally indolent who will not admit that they are sinful. For -theological implications still cluster thickly about the word sin, and -these persons are still engaged more or less consciously in the great -naturalistic revolt against theology. - -The spiritual positivist then will start from a fact of immediate -perception--from the presence namely in the breast of the individual -of a principle of vital control (_frein vital_), and he will measure -his spiritual strenuousness or spiritual sloth by the degree to which -he exercises or fails to exercise this power. In accordance with the -keenness of a man’s perception of a specially human order that is -known practically as a curb upon his ordinary self, he may be said to -possess insight. The important thing is that the insight should not -be sophisticated, that a man should not fall away from it into some -phantasmagoria of the intellect or emotions. A man sometimes builds up -a whole system of metaphysics as a sort of screen between himself and -his obligations either to himself or others. Mrs. Barbauld suspected -that Coleridge’s philosophy was only a mask for indolence. Carlyle’s -phrase for Coleridge was even harsher: “putrescent indolence,” a phrase -that might be applied with more justice perhaps to Rousseau. One may -learn from Rousseau the art of sinking to the region of instinct that -is below the rational level instead of struggling forward to the -region of insight that is above it, and at the same time passing for a -sublime enthusiast; the art of looking backwards and downwards, and at -the same time enjoying the honor that belongs only to those who look -forwards and up. We need not wonder at the warm welcome that this new -art received. I have said that that man has always been accounted a -benefactor who has substituted for the reality of spiritual discipline -some ingenious art of going through the motions and that the decorum of -the neo-classical period had largely sunk to this level. Even in the -most decorous of modern ages, that of Louis XIV, it was very common, as -every student of the period knows, for men to set up as personages in -the grand manner and at the same time behind the façade of conventional -dignity to let their appetites run riot. It would have been perfectly -legitimate at the end of the eighteenth century to attack in the name -of true decorum a decorum that had become the “varnish of vice” and -“mask of hypocrisy.” What Rousseau actually opposed to pseudo-decorum -was perhaps the most alluring form of sham spirituality that the -world has ever seen--a method not merely of masking but of glorifying -one’s spiritual indolence. “You wish to have the pleasures of vice -and the honor of virtue,” wrote Julie to Saint-Preux in a moment of -unusual candor. The Rousseauist may indulge in the extreme of psychic -unrestraint and at the same time pose as a perfect idealist or even, if -one is a Chateaubriand, as a champion of religion. Chateaubriand’s life -according to Lemaître was a “magnificent series of attitudes.” - -I do not mean to assert that the Rousseauist is always guilty of the -pose and theatricality of which there is more than a suggestion in -Chateaubriand. There is, however, much in the Rousseauistic view of -life that militates against a complete moral honesty. “Of all the men I -have known,” says Rousseau, “he whose character derives most completely -from his temperament alone is Jean-Jacques.”[100] The ugly things that -have a way of happening when impulse is thus left uncontrolled do -not, as we have seen, disturb the beautiful soul in his complacency. -He can always point an accusing finger at something or somebody else. -The faith in one’s natural goodness is a constant encouragement to -evade moral responsibility. To accept responsibility is to follow the -line of maximum effort, whereas man’s secret desire is to follow, if -not the line of least, at all events the line of lesser resistance. -The endless twisting and dodging and proneness to look for scapegoats -that results is surely the least reputable aspect of human nature. -Rousseau writes to Madame de Francueil (20 April, 1751) that it was -her class, the class of the rich, that was responsible for his having -had to abandon his children. With responsibility thus shifted from -one’s self to the rich, the next step is inevitable, namely to start a -crusade against the members of a class which, without any warrant from -“Nature,” oppresses its brothers, the members of other classes, and -forces them into transgression. A man may thus dodge his duties as a -father, and at the same time pose as a paladin of humanity. Rousseau is -very close here to our most recent agitators. If a working girl falls -from chastity, for example, do not blame her, blame her employer. She -would have remained a model of purity if he had only added a dollar or -two a week to her wage. With the progress of the new morality every -one has become familiar with the type of the perfect idealist who is -ready to pass laws for the regulation of everybody and everything -except himself, and who knows how to envelop in a mist of radiant words -schemes the true driving power of which is the desire to confiscate -property. - -The tendency to make of society the universal scapegoat is not, one -scarcely needs add, to be ascribed entirely to the romantic moralist. -It is only one aspect of the denial of the human law, of the assumption -that because man is partly subject to the natural law he is entirely -subject to it; and in this dehumanizing of man the rationalist has -been at least as guilty as the emotionalist. If the Rousseauist hopes -to find a substitute for all the restraining virtues in sympathy, the -rationalistic naturalist, who is as a rule utilitarian with a greater -or smaller dash of pseudo-science, hopes to find a substitute for these -same virtues in some form of machinery. The legislative mill to which -our “uplifters” are so ready to resort, is a familiar example. If our -modern society continues to listen to those who are seeking to persuade -it that it is possible to find mechanical or emotional equivalents for -self-control, it is likely, as Rousseau said of himself, to show a -“great tendency to degenerate.” - -The fact on which the moral positivist would rest his effort to -rehabilitate self-control is, as I have said, the presence in man of -a restraining, informing and centralizing power that is anterior to -both intellect and emotion. Such a power, it must be freely granted, is -not present equally in all persons; in some it seems scarcely to exist -at all. When released from outer control, they are simply unchained -temperaments; whereas in others this superrational perception seems to -be singularly vivid and distinct. This is the psychological fact that -underlies what the theologian would term the mystery of grace. - -Rousseau himself was not quite so temperamental as might be inferred -from what has been said about his evasion of ethical effort. There were -moments when the dualism of the spirit came home to him, moments when -he perceived that the conscience is not itself an expansive emotion -but rather a judgment and a check upon expansive emotion. Yet his -general readiness to subordinate his ethical self to his sensibility is -indubitable. Hence the absence in his personality and writing of the -note of masculinity. There is indeed much in his make-up that reminds -one less of a man than of a high-strung impressionable woman. Woman, -most observers would agree, is more natural in Rousseau’s sense, that -is, more temperamental, than man. One should indeed always temper -these perilous comparisons of the sexes with the remark of La Fontaine -that in this matter he knew a great many men who were women. Now to be -temperamental is to be extreme, and it is in this sense perhaps that -the female of the species may be said to be “fiercer than the male.” -Rousseau’s failure to find “any intermediary term between everything -and nothing” would seem to be a feminine rather than a masculine -trait. Decorum in the case of women, even more perhaps than in the -case of men, tends to be a mere conformity to what is established -rather than the immediate perception of a law of measure and proportion -that sets bounds to the expansive desires. “Women believe innocent -everything that they dare,” says Joubert, whom no one will accuse of -being a misogynist. Those who are thus temperamental have more need -than others of outer guidance. “His feminine nature,” says C. E. Norton -of Ruskin, “needed support such as it never got.”[101] - -If women are more temperamental than men it is only fair to add that -they have a greater fineness of temperament. Women, says Joubert again, -are richer in native virtues, men in acquired virtues. At times when -men are slack in acquiring virtues in the truly ethical sense--and -some might maintain that the present is such a time--the women may -be not only men’s equals but their superiors. Rousseau had this -feminine fineness of temperament. He speaks rightly of his “exquisite -faculties.” He also had no inconsiderable amount of feminine charm. The -numerous members of the French aristocracy whom he fascinated may be -accepted as competent witnesses on this point. The mingling of sense -and spirit that pervades Rousseau, his pseudo-Platonism as I have -called it elsewhere, is also a feminine rather than a masculine trait. - -There is likewise something feminine in Rousseau’s preference for -illusion. Illusion is the element in which woman even more than man -would seem to live and move and have her being. It is feminine and -also romantic to prefer to a world of sharp definition a world of magic -and suggestiveness. W. Bagehot (it will be observed that in discussing -this delicate topic I am prone to take refuge behind authorities) -attributes the triumph of an art of shifting illusion over an art -of clear and firm outlines to the growing influence of women.[102] -Woman’s being is to that of man, we are told, as is moonlight unto -sunlight--and the moon is the romantic orb. The whole of German romance -in particular is bathed in moonshine.[103] - -The objection of the classicist to the so-called enlightenment of the -eighteenth century is that it did not have in it sufficient light. The -primitivists on the contrary felt that it had too much light--that the -light needed to be tempered by darkness. Even the moon is too effulgent -for the author of “Hymns to the Night.” No movement has ever avowed -more openly its partiality for the dim and the crepuscular. The German -romanticists have been termed “twilight men.” What many of them admire -in woman as in children and plants, is her unconsciousness and freedom -from analysis--an admiration that is also a tribute in its way to the -“night side” of nature.[104] - -Discussions of the kind in which I have been indulging regarding the -unlikeness of woman and man are very dreary unless one puts at least -equal emphasis on their fundamental likeness. Woman, before being -woman, is a human being and so subject to the same law as man. So far -as men and women both take on the yoke of this law, they move towards -a common centre. So far as they throw it off and live temperamentally, -there tends to arise the most odious of all forms of warfare--that -between the sexes. The dictates of the human law are only too likely -to yield in the case of both men and women to the rush of outer -impressions and the tumult of the desires within. This is what La -Rochefoucauld means when he says that “the head is always the dupe of -the heart.” Nevertheless feeling is even more likely to prevail over -judgment in woman than it is in man. To be judicial indeed to the -point of hardness and sternness has always been held to be unfeminine. -It is almost woman’s prerogative to err on the side of sympathy. -But even woman cannot be allowed to substitute sympathy for true -conscience--that is for the principle of control. In basing conduct -on feeling Rousseau may be said to have founded a new sophistry. -The ancient sophist at least made man the measure of all things. By -subordinating judgment to sensibility Rousseau may be said to have made -woman the measure of all things. - -The affirmation of a human law must ultimately rest on the perception -of a something that is set above the flux upon which the flux itself -depends--on what Aristotle terms an unmoved mover. Otherwise conscience -becomes a part of the very flux and element of change it is supposed -to control. In proportion as he escapes from outer control man must -be conscious of some such unmoved mover if he is to oppose a definite -aim or purpose to the indefinite expansion of his desires. Having some -such firm centre he may hope to carry through to a fortunate conclusion -the “civil war in the cave.” He may, as the wise are wont to express -it, build himself an island in the midst of the flood. The romantic -moralist, on the other hand, instead of building himself an island is -simply drifting with the stream. For feeling not only shifts from man -to man, it is continually shifting in the same man; so that morality -becomes a matter of mood, and romanticism here as elsewhere might be -defined as the despotism of mood. At the time of doing anything, says -Mrs. Shelley, Shelley deemed himself right; and Rousseau says that -in the act of abandoning his own children he felt “like a member of -Plato’s republic.” - -The man who makes self-expression and not self-control his primary -endeavor becomes subject to every influence, “the very slave of -circumstance and impulse borne by every breath.”[105] This is what it -means in practice no longer to keep a firm hand on the rudder of one’s -personality, but to turn one’s self over to “nature.” The partisan -of expression becomes the thrall of his impressions so that the whole -Rousseauistic conception may be termed indifferently impressionistic or -expressionistic. For the beautiful soul in order to express himself has -to indulge his emotions instead of hardening and bracing them against -the shock of circumstance. The very refinement of sensibility which -constitutes in his own eyes his superiority to the philistine makes him -quiver responsive to every outer influence; he finally becomes subject -to changes in the weather, or in Rousseau’s own phrase, the “vile -plaything of the atmosphere and seasons.” - -This rapid shifting of mood in the romanticist, in response to -inner impulse or outer impression, is almost too familiar to need -illustration. Here is an example that may serve for a thousand from -that life-long devotee of the great god Whim--Hector Berlioz. When at -Florence, Berlioz relates in his Memoirs, he received a letter from -the mother of Camille, the woman he loved, informing him of Camille’s -marriage to another. “In two minutes my plans were laid. I must hurry -to Paris to kill two guilty women and one innocent man; for, this act -of justice done, I too must die.” Accordingly he loads his pistols, -supplies himself with a disguise as a lady’s maid, so as to be able -to penetrate into the guilty household, and puts into his pockets -“two little bottles, one of strychnine, the other of laudanum.” -While awaiting the departure of the diligence he “rages up and down -the streets of Florence like a mad dog.” Later, as the diligence is -traversing a wild mountain road, he suddenly lets out a “‘Ha’! so -hoarse, so savage, so diabolic that the startled driver bounded aside -as if he had indeed a demon for his fellow-traveller.” But on reaching -Nice he is so enchanted by the climate and environment that he not -only forgets his errand, but spends there “the twenty happiest days” of -his life! There are times, one must admit, when it is an advantage to -be temperamental. - -In this exaltation of environmental influences one should note -again the coöperation of Rousseauist and Baconian, of emotional and -scientific naturalist. Both are prone to look upon man as being made by -natural forces and not as making himself. To deal with the substitutes -that Rousseauist and Baconian have proposed for traditional morality, -is in fact to make a study of the varieties--and they are numerous--of -naturalistic fatalism. The upshot of the whole movement is to discredit -moral effort on the part of the individual. Why should a man believe -in the efficacy of this effort, why should he struggle to acquire -character if he is convinced that he is being moulded like putty by -influences beyond his control--the influence of climate, for example? -Both science and romanticism have vied with one another in making of -man a mere stop on which Nature may play what tune she will. The Æolian -harp enjoyed an extraordinary popularity as a romantic symbol. The man -of science for his part is ready to draw up statistical tables showing -what season of the year is most productive of suicide and what type of -weather impels bank-cashiers most irresistibly to embezzlement. A man -on a mountain top, according to Rousseau, enjoys not only physical but -spiritual elevation, and when he descends to the plain the altitude -of his mind declines with that of his body. Ruskin’s soul, says C. E. -Norton, “was like an Æolian harp, its strings quivering musically in -serene days under the touch of the soft air, but as the clouds gathered -and the winds arose, vibrating in the blast with a tension that might -break the sounding board itself.” It is not surprising Ruskin makes -other men as subject to “skyey influences” as himself. “The mountains -of the earth are,” he says, “its natural cathedrals. True religion can -scarcely be achieved away from them. The curate or hermit of the field -and fen, however simple his life or painful his lodging, does not often -attain the spirit of the hill pastor or recluse: we may find in him a -decent virtue or a contented ignorance, rarely the _prophetic vision or -the martyr’s passion_.” The corruptions of Romanism “are traceable for -the most part to lowland prelacy.”[106] - -Is then the Rousseauist totally unable to regulate his impressions? -It is plain that he cannot control them from within because the whole -idea of a vital control of this kind is, as we have seen, foreign to -the psychology of the beautiful soul. Yet it is, according to Rousseau, -possible to base morality on the senses--on outer perception that -is--and at the same time get the equivalent of a free-will based on -inner perception. He was so much interested in this subject that he -had planned to devote to it a whole treatise to be entitled “Sensitive -morality or the materialism of the sage.” A man cannot resist an outer -impression but he may at least get out of its way and put himself in -the way of another impression that will impel him to the desired course -of conduct. “The soul may then be put or maintained in the state most -favorable to virtue.” “Climates, seasons, sounds, colors, darkness, -light, the elements, food, noise, silence, movement, rest, everything, -acts on our physical frame.” By a proper adjustment of all these outer -elements we may govern in their origins the feelings by which we allow -ourselves to be dominated.[107] - -Rousseau’s ideas about sensitive morality are at once highly chimerical -and highly significant. Here as elsewhere one may say with Amiel -that nothing of Rousseau has been lost. His point of view has an -inner kinship with that of the man of science who asserts that man is -necessarily the product of natural forces, but that one may at least -modify the natural forces. For example, moral effort on the part of -the individual cannot overcome heredity. It is possible, however, by -schemes of eugenics to regulate heredity. The uneasy burden of moral -responsibility is thus lifted from the individual, and the moralist -in the old-fashioned sense is invited to abdicate in favor of the -biologist. It would be easy enough to trace similar assumptions in the -various forms of socialism and other “isms” almost innumerable of the -present hour. - -Perhaps the problem to which I have already alluded may as well be -faced here. How does it happen that Rousseau who attacked both science -and literature as the chief sources of human degeneracy should be an -arch-æsthete, the authentic ancestor of the school of art for art’s -sake and at the same time by his sensitive (or æsthetic) morality play -into the hands of the scientific determinist? If one is to enter deeply -into the modern movement one needs to consider both wherein scientific -and emotional naturalists clash and wherein they agree. The two types -of naturalists agree in their virtual denial of a superrational realm. -They clash above all in their attitude towards what is on the rational -level. The scientific naturalist is assiduously analytical. Rousseau, -on the other hand, or rather one whole side of Rousseau, is hostile -to analysis. The arts and sciences are attacked because they are the -product of reflection. “The man who reflects is a depraved animal,” -because he has fallen away from the primitive spontaneous unity of -his being. Rousseau is the first of the great anti-intellectualists. -By assailing both rationalism and pseudo-classic decorum in the name -of instinct and emotion he appealed to men’s longing to get away -from the secondary and the derivative to the immediate. True decorum -satisfies the craving for immediacy because it contains within itself -an element of superrational perception. The “reason” of a Plato or an -Aristotle also satisfies the craving for immediacy because it likewise -contains within itself an element of superrational perception. A reason -or a decorum of this kind ministers to another deep need of human -nature--the need to lose itself in a larger whole. Once eliminate the -superrational perception and reason sinks to the level of rationalism, -consciousness becomes mere self-consciousness. It is difficult, as -St. Evremond said, for man to remain in the long run in this doubtful -middle state. Having lost the unity of insight, he will long for the -unity of instinct. Hence the paradox that this most self-conscious -of all movements is filled with the praise of the unconscious. It -abounds in persons who, like Walt Whitman, would turn and live with the -animals, or who, like Novalis, would fain strike root into the earth -with the plant. Animals[108] and plants are not engaged in any moral -struggle, they are not inwardly divided against themselves. - -Here is the source of the opposition between the abstract and -analytical head, deadly to the sense of unity, and the warm immediate -heart that unifies life with the aid of the imagination--an opposition -that assumes so many forms from Rousseau to Bergson. The Rousseauist -always betrays himself by arraigning in some form or other, “the false -secondary power by which we multiply distinctions.” One should indeed -remember that there were obscurantists before Rousseau. Pascal also -arrays the heart against the head; but his heart is at the farthest -remove from that of Rousseau; it stands for a superrational perception. -Christians like Pascal may indulge with comparative impunity in a -certain amount of obscurantism. For they have submitted to a tradition -that supplies them with distinctions between good and evil and at the -same time controls their imagination. But for the individualist who -has broken with tradition to deny his head in the name of his heart is -a deadly peril. He above all persons should insist that the power by -which we multiply distinctions, though secondary, is not false--that -the intellect, of however little avail in itself, is invaluable when -working in coöperation with the imagination in the service of either -inner or outer perception. It is only through the analytical head and -its keen discriminations that the individualist can determine whether -the unity and infinitude towards which his imagination is reaching (and -it is only through the imagination that one can have the sense of unity -and infinitude) is real or merely chimerical. Need I add that in making -these distinctions between imagination, intellect, feeling, etc., -I am not attempting to divide man up into more or less watertight -compartments, into hard and fast “faculties,” but merely to express, -however imperfectly, certain obscure and profound facts of experience? - -The varieties of what one may term the rationalistic error, of the -endeavor of the intellect to emancipate itself from perception and -set up as an independent power, are numerous. The variety that was -perhaps formerly most familiar was that of the theologian who sought -to formulate intellectually what must ever transcend formulation. The -forms of the rationalistic error that concern our present subject can -be traced back for the most part to Descartes, the father of modern -philosophy, and are indeed implicit in his famous identification -of thought and being (_Je pense, donc je suis_). The dogmatic and -arrogant rationalism that denies both what is above and what is below -itself, both the realm of awe and the realm of wonder, which prevailed -among the Cartesians of the Enlightenment, combined, as I have said, -with pseudo-classic decorum to produce that sense of confinement and -smugness against which the original genius protested. Man will always -crave a view of life to which perception lends immediacy and the -imagination infinitude. A view of life like that of the eighteenth -century that reduces unduly the rôle of both imagination and perception -will always seem to him unvital and mechanical. “The Bounded,” says -Blake, “is loathed by its possessor. The same dull round even of a -Universe would soon become a Mill with complicated wheels.” - -The mechanizing of life against which the romanticist protested may -as I said be largely associated with the influence of Descartes. It -is not however the whole truth about Descartes to say that he forgot -the purely instrumental rôle of the intellect and encouraged it to -set up as an independent power. As a matter of fact he also used the -intellect as an instrument in the service of outer perception. Taking -as his point of departure the precise observations that science was -accumulating, he sought to formulate mathematically the natural law. -Now the more one reduces nature to a problem of space and movement, -the more one is enabled to measure nature; and the method of exact -measurement may be justified, if not on metaphysical, at least on -practical grounds. It helps one, if not to understand natural forces, -at least to control them. It thereby increases man’s power and -ministers to utility. In a word, the intellect when thus pressed into -the service of outer perception makes for material efficiency. In a -sense science becomes scientific only in proportion as it neglects -the qualitative differences between phenomena, e.g. between light and -sound, and treats them solely from the point of view of quantity. But -the penalty that science pays for this quantitative method is a heavy -one. The farther it gets away from the warm immediacy of perception -the less real it becomes; for that only is real to a man that he -immediately perceives. Perfectly pure science tends to become a series -of abstract mathematical formulæ without any real content. By his -resort to such a method, the man of science is in constant danger of -becoming a mere rationalist. At bottom he is ignorant of the reality -that lies behind natural phenomena; he must even be ignorant of it, -for it lays hold upon the infinite, and so must elude a finite being -like man. But the desire to conceal his own ignorance from himself and -others, the secret push for power and prestige that lies deep down in -the breast of the man of science as in that of every other man, impels -him to attach an independent value to the operations of the intellect -that have only an instrumental value in the service of outer perception -and to conceive that he has locked up physical nature in his formulæ. -The man of science thus falls victim to a special form of metaphysical -illusion. The gravity of the error of the scientific intellectualist is -multiplied tenfold when he conceives that his formulæ cover not merely -the natural law but the human law as well, when he strives, like Taine, -to convert man himself into a “walking theorem,” a “living geometry.” -This denial of every form of spontaneity was rightly felt by the -romanticists to be intolerable. - -Goethe contrasts the smug satisfaction of Wagner in his dead formulæ -that give only what is external and secondary, with Faust’s fierce -craving for immediacy and therefore his impatience with an analysis -that gives only the dry bones from which the vital breath has departed. -Wagner is a philistine because he is not tormented by the thirst for -the infinite. Faust, on the other hand, reaches out beyond the mere -intellect towards the spirit that is behind the shows of nature, but -this spirit appears to him and reduces him to despair by declaring that -he is trying to grasp something that is not only infinite but alien to -him. Instead of turning from this alien spirit to the spirit that is -relevant to man, a spirit that sets bounds to every inordinate craving, -including the inordinate craving for knowledge (_libido sciendi_), -Faust gives himself to the devil in what was, in the time of the -youthful Goethe, the newest fashion: he becomes a Rousseauist. Instead -of striking into the ascending path of insight, he descends to the -level of impulse. Seen from this level the power by which we multiply -distinctions seems to him, as it was to seem later to Wordsworth, not -merely secondary but false, and so definition yields to indiscriminate -feeling (_Gefühl ist alles_). In general the Rousseauistic reply to the -Cartesian attempt to identify thought and being is the identification -of being with emotion (_je sens donc je suis_). - -The Mephistopheles of Goethe has often been taken as a symbol of -the iconoclastic and Voltairian side of the eighteenth century. The -rationalists assailed the traditional forms that imply a superrational -realm as mere “prejudice,” and, failing to find in insight a substitute -for these discarded forms, they succumbed in turn to the emotionalists. -A “reason” that is not grounded in insight will always seem to men -intolerably cold and negative and will prove unable to withstand the -assault of the primary passions. The reason of a Plato or an Aristotle -is on a different footing altogether because, as I have said, it -includes an element of inner perception. One may note here that the -difficulties of the present subject arise in no small degree from the -ambiguities that cluster about the word reason. It may not only mean -the imaginative insight[109] of a Plato and the abstract reasoning -of a Descartes but is often employed by the classicist himself as -a synonym of good sense. Good sense may be defined as a correct -perception of the ordinary facts of life and of their relation to one -another. It may be of very many grades, corresponding to the infinite -diversity of the facts to be perceived. A man may evidently have good -sense in dealing with one order of facts, and quite lack it in dealing -with some different order of facts. As the result of long observation -and experience of a multitude of minute relationships, of the facts -that ordinarily follow one another or coexist in some particular field, -a man’s knowledge of this field becomes at last, as it were, automatic -and unconscious. A sea captain for example acquires at last an -intuitive knowledge of the weather, the broker, an intuitive knowledge -of stocks. The good sense or practical judgment of the sea captain in -his particular calling and of the broker in his is likely to be greater -than that of less experienced persons. One cannot, however, assert that -a man’s good sense is always in strict ratio to his experience. Some -persons seem to have an innate gift for seeing things as they are, -others a gift equally innate for seeing things as they are not. - -Again the field in which one displays one’s good sense or practical -judgment may fall primarily under either the human law or the natural -law, may belong in Aristotelian phrase to the domain either of the -probable or of the necessary. To take a homely illustration, a -man is free to choose the temperature of his bath, but only within -the limits of natural necessity--in this case the temperature at -which water freezes and that at which water boils. He will show his -practical judgment by choosing water that is neither too hot nor too -cold and this so far as he is concerned will be the golden mean. Here -as elsewhere the golden mean is nothing mechanical, but may vary -not only from individual to individual but in the same individual -according to his age, the state of his health, etc. In determining what -conforms to the golden mean or law of measure there must always be a -mediation between the particular instance and the general principle, -and it is here that intuition is indispensable. But even so there is -a centre of normal human experience, and the person who is too far -removed from it ceases to be probable. Aged persons may exist who find -bathing in ice-water beneficial, but they are not representative. -Now creative art, in distinct ratio to its dignity, deals not with -what may happen in isolated cases but with what happens according to -probability or necessity. It is this preoccupation with the universal -that as Aristotle says makes poetry a more serious and philosophical -thing than history. There enters indeed into true art an element of -vital novelty and surprise. But the more cultivated the audience to -which the creator addresses himself the more will it insist that the -surprise be not won at the expense of motivation. It will demand that -characters and incidents be not freakish, not too remote from the -facts that normally follow one another or coexist, whether in nature -or human nature. One needs, in short, to deal with both art and life -from some ethical centre. The centre with reference to which one has -good sense may be only the ethos of one’s time and country, but if -one’s good sense has, as in the case of the great poets, the support -of the imagination, it may pass beyond to something more abiding. “Of -Pope’s intellectual character,” says Dr. Johnson, “the constituent and -fundamental principle was good sense, a prompt and intuitive perception -of consonance and propriety. He saw immediately of his own conceptions -what was to be chosen, and what to be rejected.” One may grant all this -and at the same time feel the difference between the “reason” of a Pope -and the reason of a Sophocles. - -Good sense of the kind Dr. Johnson describes and decorum are not -strictly speaking synonymous. To be decorous not only must one have -a correct perception of what to do, but one must actually be able to -do it; and this often requires a long and difficult training. We have -seen that Rousseau’s spite against eighteenth-century Paris was largely -due to the fact that he had not acquired young enough the habits that -would have made it possible for him to conform to its convention. -“I affected,” says Rousseau with singular candor, “to despise the -politeness I did not know how to practice.” As a matter of fact he had -never adjusted himself to the decorum and good sense of any community. -His attitude towards life was fundamentally Bohemian. But a person who -was sensible and decorous according to the standards of some other -country might have emphasized the differences between his good sense -and decorum and the good sense and decorum of eighteenth-century Paris. -The opponents of the traditional order in the eighteenth century -were fond of introducing some Persian or Chinese to whom this order -seemed no true order at all but only “prejudice” or “abuse.” The -conclusion would seem to be that because the good sense and decorum -of one time and country do not coincide exactly with those of another -time and country, therefore good sense and decorum themselves have -in them no universal element, and are entirely implicated in the -shifting circumstances of time and place. But behind the ethos of -any particular country, that of Greece, for instance, there are, as -Antigone perceived, the “unwritten laws of heaven,” and something of -this permanent order is sure to shine through even the most imperfect -convention. Though no convention is final, though man and all he -establishes are subject to the law of change, it is therefore an -infinitely delicate and perilous task to break with convention. One -can make this break only in favor of insight; which is much as if one -should say that the only thing that may safely be opposed to common -sense is a commoner sense, or if one prefers, a common sense that is -becoming more and more imaginative. Even so, the wiser the man, one -may surmise, the less likely he will be to indulge in a violent and -theatrical rupture with his age, after the fashion of Rousseau. He will -like Socrates remember the counsel of the Delphian oracle to follow -the “usage of the city,”[110] and while striving to gain a firmer hold -upon the human law and to impose a more strenuous discipline upon his -ordinary self, he will so far as possible conform to what he finds -established. A student of the past cannot help being struck by the fact -that men are found scattered through different times and countries and -living under very different conventions who are nevertheless in virtue -of their insight plainly moving towards a common centre. So much so -that the best books of the world seem to have been written, as Emerson -puts it, by one all-wise, all-seeing gentleman. A curious circumstance -is that the writers who are most universal in virtue of their -imaginative reason or inspired good sense, are likewise as a rule the -writers who realized most intensely the life of their own age. No other -Spanish writer, for example, has so much human appeal as Cervantes, -and at the same time no other brings us so close to the heart of -sixteenth-century Spain. In the writings attributed to Confucius one -encounters, mixed up with much that is almost inconceivably remote from -us, maxims that have not lost their validity to-day; maxims that are -sure to be reaffirmed wherever and whenever men attain to the level of -humanistic insight. In the oldest Buddhist documents again one finds -along with a great deal that is very expressive of ancient India, and -thus quite foreign to our idiosyncrasy, a good sense which is even more -imaginative and inspired, and therefore more universal, than that of -Confucius, and which is manifested, moreover, on the religious rather -than on the humanistic level. We are dealing here with indubitable -facts, and should plant ourselves firmly upon them as against those who -would exaggerate either the constant or the variable elements in human -nature. - -Enough has been said to show the ambiguities involved in the word -reason. Reason may mean the abstract and geometrical reason of a -Descartes, it may mean simply good sense, which may itself exist in -very many grades ranging from an intuitive mastery of some particular -field to the intuitive mastery of the ethos of a whole age, like the -reason of a Pope. Finally reason may be imaginative and be thereby -enabled to go beyond the convention of a particular time and country, -and lay hold in varying degrees on “the unwritten laws of heaven.” I -have already traced in some measure the process by which reason in -the eighteenth century had come to mean abstract and geometrical (or -as one may say Cartesian) reason or else unimaginative good sense. -Cartesian reason was on the one hand being pressed into the service -of science and its special order of perceptions; on the other hand it -was being used frequently in coöperation with an unimaginative good -sense to attack the traditional forms that imply a realm of insight -which is above both abstract reason and ordinary good sense. Men were -emboldened to use reason in this way because they were flushed not -only by the increasing mastery of man over nature through science, -but by the positive and anti-traditional method through which this -mastery had been won. Both those who proclaimed and those who denied a -superrational realm were at least agreed in holding that the faith in -any such realm was inseparable from certain traditional forms. Pascal, -for example, held not only that insight in religion is annexed to -the acceptance of certain dogmas--and this offended the new critical -spirit--but furthermore that insight could exist even in the orthodox -only by a special divine gift or grace, and this offended man’s -reviving confidence in himself. People were ready to applaud when a -Voltaire declared it was time to “take the side of human nature against -this sublime misanthropist.” The insight into the law of decorum on -which classicism must ultimately rest was in much the same way held -to be inseparable from the Græco-Roman tradition; and so the nature -of classical insight as a thing apart from any tradition tended to -be obscured in the endless bickerings of ancients and moderns. The -classical traditionalists, however, were less prone than the Christian -traditionalists (Jansenists, Jesuits and Protestants) to weaken their -cause still further by wrangling among themselves. - -Inasmuch as both Christians and humanists failed to plant themselves -on the fact of insight, the insight came more and more to be -rejected along with the special forms from which it was deemed to be -inseparable. As a result of this rejection “reason” was left to cope -unaided with man’s impulses and expansive desires. Now Pascal saw -rightly that the balance of power in such a conflict between reason -and impulse was held by the imagination, and that if reason lacked -the support of insight the imagination would side with the expansive -desires and reason would succumb. Moreover the superrational insight, -or “heart” as Pascal calls it, that can alone keep man from being -thus overwhelmed, comes, as he holds, not through reason but through -grace and is at times actually opposed to reason. (“The heart,” he -says, “has reasons of which the reason knows nothing.”) Instead of -protesting against the asceticism of this view as the true positivist -would do, instead of insisting that reason and imagination may pull -together harmoniously in the service of insight, the romantic moralist -opposed to the superrational “heart” of the austere Christian a -subrational “heart,” and this involved an attempt to base morality -on the very element in human nature it is designed to restrain. The -positivist will plant himself first of all on the fact of insight and -will define it as the immediate perception of a something anterior -to both thought and feeling, that is known practically as a power of -control over both. The beautiful soul, as we have seen, has no place -for any such power in his scheme of things, but hopes to satisfy all -ethical elements simply by letting himself go. Rousseau (following -Shaftesbury and Hutcheson) transforms conscience itself from an inner -check into an expansive emotion. While thus corrupting conscience -in its very essence he does not deny conscience. On the contrary he -grows positively rhapsodic over conscience and other similar words. -“Rousseau took wisdom from men’s souls,” says Joubert, “by talking to -them of virtue.” In short, Rousseau displays the usual dexterity of the -sophist in juggling with ill-defined general terms. If one calls for -sharp definition one is at once dismissed as a mere rationalist who -is retreating into a false secondary power from a warm immediacy. The -traditional distinctions regarding good and bad were thus discarded -at the same time that discredit was cast on the keen analysis with -which it would have been possible to build up new distinctions--all -in favor of an indiscriminate emotionalism. This discomfiture of both -tradition and analysis in the field of the human law would not have -been so easy if at the same time man’s active attention and effort had -not been concentrated more and more on the field of the natural law. -In that field imagination and the analytical intellect were actually -pulling together in the service of perception with the result that man -was constantly gaining in power and utility. Emotional romanticists and -scientific utilitarians have thus, in spite of their surface clashes, -cooperated during the past century in the dehumanizing of man. - -It is not enough to say of the representatives of both sides of this -great naturalistic movement that they eliminate the veto power from -human nature while continuing to use the old words, like virtue and -conscience, that imply a veto power. We have seen that they actually -attack the veto power as synonymous with evil. The devil is conceived -as the spirit that always says no. A purely affirmative morality -is almost necessarily an emotional morality. If there is no region -of insight above the reason which is felt by the natural man as an -element of vital control, and if cold reason, reason unsupported by -insight, never has done anything illustrious, as Rousseau truly says, -it follows that the only way to put driving power behind reason is to -turn virtue into a passion,--a passion that differs from other passions -merely in its greater imperiousness. For the beautiful soul virtue, -as we have seen in the case of Robespierre, is not only a tender, -imperious and voluptuous passion but even an intoxication. “I was, -if not virtuous,” says Rousseau, “at least intoxicated with virtue.” -In its extreme manifestations romantic morality is indeed only one -aspect, and surely the most singular aspect, of the romantic cult of -intoxication. No student of romanticism can fail to be struck by its -pursuit of delirium, vertigo and intoxication for their own sake. It -is important to see how all these things are closely related to one -another and how they all derive from the attempt to put life on an -emotional basis. To rest conscience, for example, on emotion is to rest -it on what is always changing, not only from man to man but from moment -to moment in the same man. “If,” as Shelley says, “nought is, but that -it feels itself to be,” it will feel itself to be very different things -at different times. No part of man is exempt from the region of flux -and change. There is, as James himself points out, a kinship between -such a philosophy of pure motion and vertigo. Faust after all is only -consistent when having identified the spirit that says no, which is -the true voice of conscience, with the devil, he proceeds to dedicate -himself to vertigo (_dem Taumel weih’ ich mich_). Rousseau also, as -readers of the “Confessions” will remember, deliberately courted -giddiness by gazing down on a waterfall from the brink of a precipice -(making sure first that the railing on which he leaned was good and -strong). This naturalistic dizziness became epidemic among the Greeks -at the critical moment of their break with traditional standards. -“Whirl is King,” cried Aristophanes, “having driven out Zeus.” The -modern sophist is even more a votary of the god Whirl than the Greek, -for he has added to the mobility of an intellect that has no support in -either tradition or insight the mobility of feeling. Many Rousseauists -were, like Hazlitt, attracted to the French Revolution by its “grand -whirling movements.” - -Even more significant than the cult of vertigo is the closely allied -cult of intoxication. “Man being reasonable,” says Byron, with true -Rousseauistic logic, “must therefore get drunk. The best of life is -but intoxication.” The subrational and impulsive self of the man who -has got drunk is not only released from the surveillance of reason -in any sense of the word, but his imagination is at the same tune -set free from the limitations of the real. If many Rousseauists have -been rightly accused of being “lovers of delirium,” that is because -in delirium the fancy is especially free to wander wild in its own -empire of chimeras. To compose a poem, as Coleridge is supposed to have -composed “Kubla Khan,” in an opium dream without any participation of -his rational self is a triumph of romantic art. “I should have taken -more opium when I wrote it,” said Friedrich Schlegel in explanation of -the failure of his play “Alarcos.” What more specially concerns our -present topic is the carrying over of this subrational “enthusiasm” -into the field of ethical values, and this calls for certain careful -distinctions. Genuine religion--whether genuine Christianity or genuine -Buddhism--is plainly unfriendly in the highest degree to every form of -intoxication. Buddhism, for example, not only prohibits the actual use -of intoxicants but it pursues implacably all the subtler intoxications -of the spirit. The attitude of the humanist towards intoxication is -somewhat more complex. He recognizes how deep in man’s nature is the -craving for some blunting of the sharp edge of his consciousness and -at least a partial escape from reason and reality; and so he often -makes a place on the recreative side of life for such moments of escape -even if attained with the aid of wine. _Dulce est desipere in loco._ -Pindar, who displays so often in his verse the high seriousness of the -ethical imagination, is simply observing the decorum of the occasion -when he celebrates in a song for the end of a feast “the time when the -wearisome cares of men have vanished from their reasons and on a wide -sea of golden wealth we are all alike voyaging to some visionary shore. -He that is penniless is then rich, and even they that are wealthy find -their hearts expanding, when they are smitten by the arrows of the -vine.” The true Greek, one scarcely needs add, put his final emphasis, -as befitted a child of Apollo, not on intoxication but on the law of -measure and sobriety--on preserving the integrity of his mind, to -render literally the Greek word for the virtue that he perhaps prized -the most.[111] One must indeed remember that alongside the Apollonian -element in Greek life is the orgiastic or Dyonisiac element. But when -Euripides sides imaginatively with the frenzy of Dionysus, as he does -in his “Bacchae,” though ostensibly preaching moderation, we may affirm -that he is falling away from what is best in the spirit of Hellas and -revealing a kinship with the votaries of the god Whirl. The cult of -intoxication has as a matter of fact appeared in all times and places -where men have sought to get the equivalent of religious vision and the -sense of oneness that it brings without rising above the naturalistic -level. True religious vision is a process of concentration, the result -of the imposition of the veto power upon the expansive desires of the -ordinary self. The various naturalistic simulations of this vision -are, on the contrary, expansive, the result of a more or less complete -escape from the veto power, whether won with the aid of intoxicants or -not. The emotional romanticists from Rousseau down have left no doubt -as to the type of vision they represented. Rousseau dilates with a sort -of fellow feeling on the deep potations that went on in the taverns -of patriarchal Geneva.[112] Renan looks with disfavor on those who -are trying to diminish drunkenness among the common people. He merely -asks that this drunkenness “be gentle, amiable, accompanied by moral -sentiments.” Perhaps this side of the movement is best summed up in the -following passage of William James: “The sway of alcohol over mankind -is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties -of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry -criticisms of the sober hour. Sobriety diminishes, discriminates and -says no; drunkenness expands, unites, and says yes. It is, in fact, the -great exciter of the _Yes_ function in man. It brings its votary from -the chill periphery of things to the radiant core. It makes him for the -moment one with truth.”[113] - -The American distiller who named one of his brands “Golden Dream -Whiskey” was evidently too modest. If an adept in the new psychology he -might have set up as a pure idealist, as the opener up of an especially -radiant pathway to the “truth.” - -The primitivist then attacks sober discrimination as an obstacle both -to warm immediacy of feeling and to unity. He tends to associate the -emotional unity that he gains through intoxication with the unity of -instinct which he so admires in the world of the subrational. “The -romantic character,” says Ricarda Huch, “is more exposed to waste -itself in debaucheries than any other; for only in intoxication, -whether of love or wine, when the one half of its being, consciousness, -is lulled to sleep, can it enjoy the bliss for which it envies every -beast--the bliss of feeling itself one.”[114] The desires of the -animal, however, work within certain definite limits. They are not, -like those of the primitivist, inordinate, the explanation being that -they are less stimulated than the desires of the primitivist by the -imagination. Even if he gets rid of intellect and moral effort, the -primitivist cannot attain the unity of instinct because he remains too -imaginative; at the same time he proclaims and proclaims rightly that -the imagination is the great unifying power--the power that can alone -save us from viewing things in “disconnection dead and spiritless.” -We should attend carefully at this point for we are coming to the -heart of the great romantic sophism. The Rousseauist does not attain -to the unity of the man whose impulses and desires are controlled and -disciplined to some ethical centre. He does not, in spite of all his -praise of the unconscious and of the “sublime animals,” attain to the -unity of instinct. In what sense then may he be said to attain unity? -The obvious reply is that he attains unity only in dreamland. For -the nature to which he would return, one cannot repeat too often, is -nothing real, but a mere nostalgic straining of the imagination away -from the real. It is only in dreamland that one can rest unity on the -expansive forces of personality that actually divide not only one -individual from another but the same individual from himself. It is -only in dreamland that, in the absence of both inner and outer control, -“all things” will “flow to all, as rivers to the sea.” Such a unity -will be no more than a dream unity, even though one term it the ideal -and sophisticate in its favor all the traditional terms of religion and -morality. A question that forces itself at every stage upon the student -of this movement is: _What is the value of unity without reality?_ -For two things are equally indubitable: first, that romanticism on -the philosophical side, is a protest in the name of unity against the -disintegrating analysis of the eighteenth-century rationalist; second, -that what the primitivist wants in exchange for analysis is not reality -but illusion. Rousseau who inclines like other æsthetes to identify the -true with the beautiful was, we are told, wont to exclaim: “There is -nothing beautiful save that which is not”; a saying to be matched with -that of “La Nouvelle Héloïse”: “The land of chimeras is alone worthy -of habitation.” Similar utterances might be multiplied from French, -English, and German romanticists.[115] To be sure, the word “reality” -is perhaps the most slippery of all general terms. Certain recent -votaries of the god Whirl, notably Bergson, have promised us that if -we surrender to the flux we shall have a “vision” not only of unity -but also of reality; and so they have transferred to the cult of their -divinity all the traditional language of religion. - -We do not, however, need for the present to enter into a discussion as -to the nature of reality, but simply to stick to strict psychological -observation. From this point of view it is not hard to see that the -primitivist makes his primary appeal not to man’s need for unity and -reality but to a very different need. Byron has told us what this need -is in his tale (“The Island”) of a ship’s crew that overpowered its -officers and then set sail for Otaheite; what impelled these Arcadian -mutineers was not the desire for a genuine return to aboriginal life -with its rigid conventions, but - - The wish--which ages have not yet subdued - In man--to have no master save his mood. - -Now to have no master save one’s mood is to be wholly temperamental. -In Arcadia--the ideal of romantic morality--those who are wholly -temperamental unite in sympathy and brotherly love. It remains to -consider more fully what this triumph of temperament means in the real -world. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -ROMANTIC MORALITY: THE REAL - - -The fundamental thing in Rousseauistic morality is not, as we have -seen, the assertion that man is naturally good, but the denial of -the “civil war in the cave.” Though this denial is not complete in -Rousseau himself, nothing is more certain than that his whole tendency -is away from this form of dualism. The beautiful soul does the right -thing not as a result of effort, but spontaneously, unconsciously and -almost inevitably. In fact the beautiful soul can scarcely be said to -be a voluntary agent at all. “Nature” acts in him and for him. This -minimizing of moral struggle and deliberation and choice, this drift -towards a naturalistic fatalism, as it may be termed, is a far more -significant thing in Rousseau than his optimism. One may as a matter -of fact eliminate dualism in favor of nature and at the same time look -on nature as evil. This is precisely what one is likely to do if one -sees no alternative to temperamental living, while judging those who -live temperamentally not by their “ideal,” that is by their feeling of -their own loveliness, but by what they actually do. One will become -a realist in the sense that came to be attached to this word during -the latter part of the nineteenth century. Rousseau himself is often -realistic in this sense when he interrupts his Arcadian visions to -tell us what actually occurred. In the “Confessions,” as I have said, -passages that recall Lamartine alternate with passages that recall -Zola, and the transition from one type of passage to the other is -often disconcertingly sudden. In reading these realistic passages of -Rousseau we are led to reflect that his “nature” is not, in practice, -so remote from Taine’s nature as might at first appear. “What we -call _nature_,” says Taine, “is this brood of secret passions, often -maleficent, generally vulgar, always blind, which tremble and fret -within us, ill-covered by the cloak of decency and reason under which -we try to disguise them; we think we lead them and they lead us; we -think our actions our own, they are theirs.”[116] - -The transition from an optimistic to a pessimistic naturalism can be -followed with special clearness in the stages by which the sentimental -drama of the eighteenth century passes over into the realistic drama of -a later period. Petit de Julleville contrasts the beginning and the end -of this development as follows: “[In the eighteenth century] to please -the public you had to say to it: ‘You are all at least at bottom good, -virtuous, full of feeling. Let yourselves go, follow your instincts; -listen to nature and you will do the right thing spontaneously.’ How -changed times are! Nowadays[117] any one who wishes to please, to be -read and petted and admired, to pass for great and become very rich, -should address men as follows: ‘You are a vile pack of rogues, and -profligates, you have neither faith nor law; you are impelled by your -instincts alone and these instincts are ignoble. Do not try though to -mend matters, that would be of no use at all.’”[118] - -The connecting link between these different forms of the drama is -naturalistic fatalism, the suppression of moral responsibility for -either man’s goodness or badness. Strictly speaking, the intrusion of -the naturalistic element into the realm of ethical values and the -subversion by it of deliberation and choice and of the normal sequence -of moral cause and effect is felt from the human point of view not as -fate at all, but as chance. Emotional romanticism joins at this point -with other forms of romanticism, which all show a proclivity to prefer -to strict motivation, to probability in the Aristotelian sense, what is -fortuitous and therefore wonderful. This is only another way of saying -that the romanticist is moving away from the genuinely dramatic towards -melodrama. Nothing is easier than to establish the connection between -emotional romanticism and the prodigious efflorescence of melodrama, -the irresponsible quest for thrills, that has marked the past century. -What perhaps distinguishes this movement from any previous one is the -attempt to invest what is at bottom a melodramatic view of life with -philosophic and even religious significance. By suppressing the “civil -war in the cave” one strikes at the very root of true drama. It does -not then much matter from the dramatic point of view whether the burden -of responsibility for good or evil of which you have relieved the -individual is shifted upon “nature” or society. Shelley, for example, -puts the blame for evil on society. “Prometheus Unbound,” in which he -has developed his conception, is, judged as a play, only an ethereal -melodrama. The unaccountable collapse of Zeus, a monster of unalloyed -and unmotivated badness, is followed by the gushing forth in man of -an equally unalloyed and unmotivated goodness. The whole genius of -Hugo, again, as I have said in speaking of his use of antithesis, is -melodramatic. His plays may be described as parvenu melodramas. They -abound in every variety of startling contrast and strange happening, -the whole pressed into the service of “problems” manifold and even of a -philosophy of history. At the same time the poverty of ethical insight -and true dramatic motivation is dissimulated under profuse lyrical -outpourings and purple patches of local color. His Hernani actually -glories in not being a responsible agent, but an “unchained and fatal -force,”[119] and so more capable of striking astonishment into himself -and others. Yet the admirers of Hugo would not only promote him to the -first rank of poets, but would have us share his own belief that he is -a seer and a prophet. - -It may be objected that the great dramatists of the past exalt this -power of fate and thus diminish moral responsibility. But the very -sharpest distinction must be drawn between the subrational fate of the -emotional romanticist and the superrational fate of Greek tragedy. -The fate of Æschylean tragedy, for instance, so far from undermining -moral responsibility rather reinforces it. It is felt to be the -revelation of a moral order of which man’s experience at any particular -moment is only an infinitesimal fragment. It does not seem, like the -subrational fate of the emotional romanticist, the intrusion into the -human realm of an alien power whether friendly or unfriendly. This -point might be established by a study of the so-called fate drama in -Germany (_Schicksaltragödie_), which, though blackly pessimistic, is -closely related to the optimistic sentimental drama of the eighteenth -century.[120] The German fate drama is in its essence ignoble because -its characters are specimens of sensitive morality--incapable, that is, -of opposing a firm human purpose to inner impulse or outer impression. -The fate that thus wells up from the depths of nature and overwhelms -their wills is not only malign and ironical, but as Grillparzer says, -makes human deeds seem only “throws of the dice in the blind night of -chance.”[121] It would be easy to follow similar conceptions of fate -down through later literature at least to the novels of Thomas Hardy. - -Some of the earlier exponents of the sentimental drama, like Diderot, -were not so certain as one might expect that the discarding of -traditional decorum in favor of “nature” would result practically in a -reign of pure loveliness. At one moment Diderot urges men to get rid -of the civil war in the cave in order that they may be Arcadian, like -the savages of the South Sea, but at other moments--as in “Rameau’s -Nephew”--he shows a somewhat closer grip on the problem of what will -actually come to pass when a man throws off the conventions of a highly -organized civilization and sets out to live temperamentally. Diderot -sees clearly that he will be that least primitive of all beings, the -Bohemian. Rameau’s nephew, in his irresponsibility and emotional -instability, in the kaleidoscopic shiftings of his mood, anticipates -all the romantic Bohemians and persons of “artistic temperament” who -were to afflict the nineteenth century. But he is more than a mere -æsthete. At moments we can discern in him the first lineaments of the -superman, who knows no law save the law of might. One should recollect -that the actual influence of Diderot in France fell in the second -rather than in the first half of the nineteenth century--was upon the -realists rather than upon the romanticists. The same men that had a -cult for Diderot admired the Vautrins and the Rastignacs of Balzac and -the Julien Sorel of Stendhal. These characters are little Napoleons. -They live temperamentally in the midst of a highly organized society, -but they set aside its conventions of right and wrong in favor, not of -æsthetic enjoyment, but of power. - -The ideal of romantic morality, as was seen in the last chapter, -is altruism. The real, it should be clear from the examples I have -been citing, is always egoism. But egoism may assume very different -forms. As to the main forms of egoism in men who have repudiated -outer control without acquiring self-control we may perhaps revive -profitably the old Christian classification of the three lusts--the -lust of knowledge, the lust of sensation, and the lust of power. -Goethe indeed may be said to have treated these three main ways of -being temperamental in three of his early characters--the lust of -knowledge in “Faust,” the lust of sensation in “Werther,” and the -lust of power in “Götz.” If we view life solely from the naturalistic -level and concern ourselves solely with the world of action, we are -justified in neglecting, like Hobbes, the other lusts and putting -supreme emphasis on the lust for power.[122] Professor F.J. Mather, -Jr., has distinguished between “hard” and “soft” sentimentalists.[123] -His distinction might perhaps be brought more closely into line with -my own distinctions if I ventured to coin a word and to speak of hard -and soft temperamentalists. The soft temperamentalist will prove unable -to cope in the actual world with the hard temperamentalist, and is -very likely to become his tool. Balzac has very appropriately made -Lucien de Rubempré, the romantic poet and a perfect type of a soft -temperamentalism, the tool of Vautrin, the superman. - -Here indeed is the supreme opposition between the ideal and the real -in romantic morality. The ideal to which Rousseau invites us is either -the primitivistic anarchy of the “Second Discourse,” in which egoism is -tempered by “natural pity,” or else a state such as is depicted in the -“Social Contract,” in which egoism is held in check by a disinterested -“general will.” The preliminary to achieving either of these ideals is -that the traditional checks on human nature should be removed. But in -exact proportion as this programme of emancipation is carried out what -emerges in the real world is not the mythical will to brotherhood, but -the ego and its fundamental will to power. Give a bootblack half the -universe, according to Carlyle, and he will soon be quarreling with -the owner of the other half. He will if he is a very temperamental -bootblack. Perhaps indeed all other evils in life may be reduced to the -failure to check that something in man that is reaching out for more -and ever for more. In a society in which the traditional inhibitions -are constantly growing weaker, the conflict I have just sketched -between the ideal and the real is becoming more and more acute. The -soft temperamentalists are overflowing with beautiful professions -of brotherly love, and at the same time the hard temperamentalists -are reaching out for everything in sight; and inasmuch as the hard -temperamentalists operate not in dreamland, but in the real world, -they are only too plainly setting the tone. Very often, of course, -the same temperamentalist has his hard and his soft side. The triumph -of egoism over altruism in the relations between man and man is even -more evident in the relations between nation and nation. The egoism -that results from the inbreeding of temperament on a national scale -runs in the case of the strong nations into imperialism.[124] We have -not reflected sufficiently on the fact that the soft temperamentalist -Rousseau is more than any other one person the father of _Kultur_;[125] -and that the exponents of Kultur in our own day have been revealed as -the hardest of hard temperamentalists. - -To understand the particular craving that is met by Rousseauistic -idealism one would need to go with some care into the psychology of -the half-educated man. The half-educated man may be defined as the man -who has acquired a degree of critical self-consciousness sufficient -to detach him from the standards of his time and place, but not -sufficient to acquire the new standards that come with a more thorough -cultivation. It was pointed out long ago that the characteristic of the -half-educated man is that he is incurably restless; that he is filled -with every manner of desire. In contrast with him the uncultivated man, -the peasant, let us say, and the man of high cultivation have few and -simple desires. Thus Socrates had fewer and simpler desires than the -average Athenian. But what is most noteworthy about the half-educated -man is not simply that he harbors many desires and is therefore -incurably restless, but that these desires are so often incompatible. -He craves various good things, but is not willing to pay the price--not -willing to make the necessary renunciations. He pushes to an extreme -what is after all a universal human proclivity--the wish to have one’s -cake and eat it too. Thus, while remaining on the naturalistic level, -he wishes to have blessings that accrue only to those who rise to the -humanistic or religious levels. He wishes to live in “a universe with -the lid off,” to borrow a happy phrase from the pragmatist, and at the -same time to enjoy the peace and brotherhood that are the fruits of -restraint. The moral indolence of the Rousseauist is such that he is -unwilling to adjust himself to the truth of the human law; and though -living naturalistically, he is loath to recognize that what actually -prevails on the naturalistic level is the law of cunning and the law -of force. He thus misses the reality of both the human and the natural -law and in the pursuit of a vague Arcadian longing falls into sheer -unreality. I am indeed overstating the case so far as Rousseau is -concerned. He makes plain in the “Emile” that the true law of nature -is not the law of love but the law of force. Emile is to be released -from the discipline of the human law and given over to the discipline -of nature; and this means in practice that he will have “to bow his -neck beneath the hard yoke of physical necessity.” In so far the -“nature” of Emile is no Arcadian dream. Where the Arcadian dreaming -begins is when Rousseau assumes that an Emile who has learned the -lesson of force from Nature herself, will not pass along this lesson -to others, whether citizens of his own or some other country, but will -rather display in his dealings with them an ideal fraternity. In the -early stages of the naturalistic movement, in Hobbes and Shaftesbury, -for example, egoism and altruism, the idea of power and the idea of -sympathy, are more sharply contrasted than they are in Rousseau and the -later romanticists. Shaftesbury assumes in human nature an altruistic -impulse or will to brotherhood that will be able to cope successfully -with the will to power that Hobbes declares to be fundamental. Many of -the romanticists, as we have seen, combine the cult of power with the -cult of brotherhood. Hercules, as in Shelley’s poem, is to bow down -before Prometheus, the lover of mankind. The extreme example, however, -is probably William Blake. He proclaims himself of the devil’s party, -he glorifies a free expansion of energy, he looks upon everything that -restricts this expansion as synonymous with evil. At the same time he -pushes his exaltation of sympathy to the verge of the grotesque.[126] - -Such indeed is the jumble of incompatibles in Blake that he would -rest an illimitable compassion on the psychology of the superman. For -nothing is more certain than that the “Marriage of Heaven and Hell” -is among other things a fairly complete anticipation of Nietzsche. -The reasons are worth considering why the idea of power and the idea -of sympathy which Blake and so many other romanticists hoped to unite -have once more come to seem antipodal, why in the late stages of the -movement one finds a Nietzsche and a Tolstoy, just as in its early -stages one finds a Hobbes and a Shaftesbury. It is plain, first of -all, that what brought the two cults together for a time was their -common hatred of the past. With the triumph over the past fairly -complete, the incompatibility of power and sympathy became increasingly -manifest. Nietzsche’s attitude is that of a Prometheus whose sympathy -for mankind has changed to disgust on seeing the use that they are -actually making of their emancipation. Humanitarian sympathy seemed -to him to be tending not merely to a subversion, but to an inversion -of values, to a positive preference for the trivial and the ignoble. -He looked with special loathing on that side of the movement that is -symbolized in its homage to the ass. The inevitable flying apart of -power and sympathy was further hastened in Nietzsche and others by -the progress of evolution. Darwinism was dissipating the Arcadian -mist through which nature had been viewed by Rousseau and his early -followers. The gap is wide between Tennyson’s nature “red in tooth and -claw” and the tender and pitiful nature of Wordsworth.[127] Nietzsche’s -preaching of ruthlessness is therefore a protest against the sheer -unreality of those who wish to be natural and at the same time -sympathetic. But how are we to get a real scale of values to oppose to -an indiscriminate sympathy? It is here that Nietzsche shows that he -is caught in the same fatal coil of naturalism as the humanitarian. -He accepts the naturalistic corruption of conscience which underlies -all other naturalistic corruptions. “The will to overcome an emotion,” -he says, “is ultimately only the will of another or of several other -emotions.”[128] All he can do with this conception of conscience is -to set over against the humanitarian suppression of values a scale -of values based on force and not a true scale of values based on the -degree to which one imposes or fails to impose on one’s temperamental -self a human law of vital control. The opposition between a Nietzsche -and a Tolstoy is therefore not specially significant; it is only that -between the hard and the soft temperamentalist. To be sure Nietzsche -can on occasion speak very shrewdly about the evils that have resulted -from temperamentalism--especially from the passion for an untrammeled -self-expression. But the superman himself is a most authentic -descendant of the original genius in whom we first saw this passion -dominant. The imagination of the superman, spurning every centre of -control, traditional or otherwise, so coöperates with his impulses -and desires as to give them “infinitude,” that is so as to make -them reach out for more and ever for more. The result is a frenzied -romanticism.[129] - -“Proportionateness is strange to us, let us confess it to ourselves,” -says Nietzsche. “Our itching is really the itching for the infinite, -the immeasurable.” How the humanitarian loses proportionateness is -plain; it is by his readiness to sacrifice to sympathy the ninety -per cent or so of the virtues that imply self-control. The superman -would scarcely seem to redress the balance by getting rid of the same -restraining virtues in favor of power. He simply oscillates wildly -from the excess of which he is conscious in others or in himself into -the opposite excess, at imminent peril in either case to the ethical -basis of civilization. The patterns or models that the past had set -up for imitation and with reference to which one might rein in his -lusts and impose upon them proportionateness are rejected by every -type of romantic expansionist, not only as Nietzsche says, because -they do not satisfy the yearning for the infinite, but also, as we -have seen, because they do not satisfy the yearning for unity and -immediacy. Now so far as the forms of the eighteenth century were -concerned the romantic expansionist had legitimate grounds for protest. -But because the rationalism and artificial decorum of that period -failed to satisfy, he goes on to attack the analytical intellect -and decorum in general and this attack is entirely illegitimate. It -may be affirmed on the contrary that the power by which we multiply -distinctions is never so necessary as in an individualistic age, an age -that has broken with tradition on the ground that it wishes to be more -imaginative and immediate. There are various ways of being imaginative -and immediate, and analysis is needed, not to build up some abstract -system but to discriminate between the actual data of experience and -so to determine which one of these ways it is expedient to follow if -one wishes to become wise and happy. It is precisely at such moments -of individualistic break with the past that the sophist stands ready -to juggle with general terms, and the only protection against such -juggling is to define these terms with the aid of the most unflinching -analysis. Thus Bergson would have us believe that there are in France -two main types of philosophy, a rationalistic type that goes back to -Descartes and an intuitive type that goes back to Pascal,[130] and -gives us to understand that, inasmuch as he is an intuitionist, he -is in the line of descent from Pascal. Monstrous sophistries lurk in -this simple assertion, sophistries which if they go uncorrected are -enough to wreck civilization. The only remedy is to define the word -intuition, to discriminate practically and by their fruits between -subrational and superrational intuition. When analyzed and defined in -this way subrational intuition will be found to be associated with -vital impulse (_élan vital_) and superrational intuition with a power -of vital control (_frein vital_) over this impulse; and furthermore -it will be clear that this control must be exercised if men are to -be drawn towards a common centre, not in dreamland, but in the real -world. So far then from its being true that the man who analyzes must -needs see things in disconnection dead and spiritless, it is only by -analysis that he is, in an individualistic age, put on the pathway of -true unity, and also of the rôle of the imagination in achieving this -unity. For there is need to discriminate between the different types -of imagination no less than between the different types of intuition. -One will find through such analysis that the centre of normal human -experience that is to serve as a check on impulse (so far at least as -it is something distinct from the mere convention of one’s age and -time) can be apprehended only with the aid of the imagination. This is -only another way of saying that the reality that is set above one’s -ordinary self is not a fixed absolute but can be glimpsed, if at all, -only through a veil of illusion and is indeed inseparable from the -illusion. This realm of insight cannot be finally formulated for the -simple reason that it is anterior to formulæ. It must therefore from -the point of view of an intellect it transcends seem infinite though in -a very different sense from the outer infinite of expansive desire. - -This inner or human infinite, so far from being incompatible with -decorum, is the source of true decorum. True decorum is only the -pulling back and disciplining of impulse to the proportionateness that -has been perceived with the aid of what one may term the ethical or -generalizing imagination. To dismiss like the romantic expansionist -everything that limits or restricts the lust of knowledge or of power -or of sensation as arbitrary and artificial is to miss true decorum and -at the same time to sink, as a Greek would say, from ethos to pathos. -If one is to avoid this error one must, as Hamlet counsels, “in the -very torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of passion, acquire -and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness.” This is probably -the best of all modern definitions of decorum simply because it is the -most experimental. In general all that has been said about the ethical -imagination is not to be taken as a fine-spun theory, but as an attempt -however imperfect to give an account of actual experience. - -One may report from observation another trait of truly ethical art, art -which is at once imaginative and decorous. It is not merely intense, -as art that is imaginative at the expense of decorum may very well -be,[131] it has a restrained and humanized intensity--intensity on a -background of calm. The presence of the ethical imagination whether in -art or life[132] is always known as an element of calm. - -In art that has the ethical quality, and I am again not setting up a -metaphysical theory but reporting from observation, the calm that comes -from imaginative insight into the universal is inextricably blended -with an element of uniqueness--with a something that belongs to a -particular time and place and individual. The truth to the universal, -as Aristotle would say, gives the work verisimilitude and the truth -to the particular satisfies man’s deep-seated craving for novelty; -so that the best art unites the probable with the wonderful. But -the probable, one cannot insist too often, is won no less than the -wonderful with the aid of the imagination and so is of the very soul -of art. The romanticist who is ready to sacrifice the probable to the -wonderful and to look on the whole demand for verisimilitude as an -academic superstition is prone to assume that he has a monopoly of -soul and imagination. But the word soul is at least in as much need -of Socratic definition as the word intuition. It is possible, for -example, with the aid of the ethical imagination so to partake of the -ultimate element of calm as to rise to the religious level. The man who -has risen to this level has a soul, but it is a soul of peace. Both -soul and imagination are also needed to achieve the fine adjustment -and mediation of the humanist. It is not enough, however, to have a -religious or a humanistic soul if one is to be a creator or even a -fully equipped critic of art. For art rests primarily not on ethical -but æsthetic perception. This perception itself varies widely according -to the art involved. One may, for instance, be musically perceptive and -at the same time lack poetic perception. To be a creator in any art -one must possess furthermore the technique of this art--something that -is more or less separable from its “soul” in any sense of the word. It -is possible to put a wildly romantic soul into art, as has often been -done in the Far East, and at the same time to be highly conventional -or traditional in one’s technique. Writers like Mérimée, Renan, and -Maupassant again are faithful in the main to the technique of French -prose that was worked out during the classical period, but combine with -this technique an utterly unclassical “soul.” - -Rules, especially perhaps rules as to what to avoid, may be of aid in -acquiring technique, but are out of place in dealing with the soul of -art. There one passes from rules to principles. The only rule, if we -are to achieve art that has an ethical soul, is to view life with some -degree of imaginative wholeness. Art that has technique without soul -in either the classical or romantic sense, and so fails either to -inspire elevation or awaken wonder, is likely to be felt as a barren -virtuosity. The pseudo-classicist was often unduly minute in the rules -he laid down for technique or outer form, as one may say, and then -ignored the ethical imagination or inner form entirely, or else set up -as a substitute mere didacticism. Since pseudo-classic work of this -type plainly lacked soul and imagination, and since the romanticist -felt and felt rightly that he himself had a soul and imagination, he -concluded wrongly that soul and imagination are romantic monopolies. -Like the pseudo-classicist, he inclines to identify high seriousness -in art, something that can only come from the exercise of the ethical -imagination at its best, with mere preaching, only he differs from -the pseudo-classicist in insisting that preaching should be left to -divines. One should insist, on the contrary, that the mark of genuinely -ethical art, art that is highly serious, is that it is free from -preaching. Sophocles is more ethical than Euripides for the simple -reason that he views life with more imaginative wholeness. At the same -time he is much less given to preaching than Euripides. He does not, as -FitzGerald says, interrupt the action and the exhibition of character -through action in order to “jaw philosophy.” - -It is not unusual for the modern artist to seek, like Euripides, -to dissimulate the lack of true ethical purpose in his work by -agitating various problems. But problems come and go, whereas human -nature abides. One may agitate problems without number, and yet -lack imaginative insight into the abiding element in human nature. -Moreover, not being of the soul of art, the problem that one agitates -is in danger of being a clogging intellectualism. Furthermore to seek -in problems an equivalent for the definition and purpose that the -ethical imagination alone can give is to renew, often in an aggravated -form, the neo-classical error. The moralizing of the pseudo-classic -dramatist, even though dull and misplaced, was usually sound enough in -itself; whereas the moralizing of those who seek nowadays to use the -stage as a pulpit, resting as it does on false humanitarian postulates, -is in itself dubious. The problem play succeeds not infrequently in -being at once dull and indecent. - -The problem play is often very superior in technique or outer form -to the earlier romantic drama, but it still suffers from the same -lack of inner form, inasmuch as its social purpose cannot take the -place of true human purpose based on imaginative insight into the -universal. The lack of inner form in so much modern drama and art in -general can be traced to the original unsoundness of the break with -pseudo-classic formalism. To a pseudo-classic art that lacked every -kind of perceptiveness the Rousseauist opposed æsthetic perceptiveness, -and it is something, one must admit, thus to have discovered the -senses. But to his æsthetic perceptiveness he failed, as I have -already said, to add ethical perceptiveness because of his inability -to distinguish between ethical perceptiveness and mere didacticism, -and so when asked to put ethical purpose into art he replied that -art should be pursued for its own sake (_l’art pour l’art_) and -that “beauty is its own excuse for being.” One should note here -the transformation that this pure æstheticism brought about in the -meaning of the word beauty itself. For the Greek beauty resided in -proportion,[133] and proportion can be attained only with the aid of -the ethical imagination. With the elimination of the ethical element -from the soul of art the result is an imagination that is free to -wander wild with the emancipated emotions. The result is likely to be -art in which a lively æsthetic perceptiveness is not subordinated to -any whole, art that is unstructural, however it may abound in vivid and -picturesque details; and a one-sided art of this kind the romanticist -does not hesitate to call beautiful. “If we let the reason sleep and -are content to watch a succession of dissolving views,” says Mr. Elton -of Shelley’s “Revolt of Islam,” “the poem is seen at once to overflow -with beauty.”[134] Mere reason is not strictly speaking a sufficient -remedy for this unstructural type of “beauty.” Thus Chateaubriand’s -reason is on the side of proportion and all the classical virtues but -his imagination is not (and we cannot repeat too often that it is what -a man is imaginatively and not what he preaches that really counts). -Instead of siding with his reason and aiding it to ethical perception -Chateaubriand’s imagination is the free playmate of his emotions. “What -did I care for all these futilities” (i.e. his functions as cabinet -minister), he exclaims, “I who never cared for anything except for my -dreams, and even then on condition that they should last only for a -night.” When a man has once spoken in that vein sensible people will -pay little heed to what he preaches; for they will be certain that the -driving power of his work and personality is elsewhere. The imagination -holds the balance of power between the reason and the perceptions -of sense, and Chateaubriand’s imagination is plainly on the side of -sensuous adventure. This vagabondage of the imagination appears -especially in his imagistic trend, in his pursuit of the descriptive -detail for its own sake. To set out like Chateaubriand to restore the -monarchy and the Christian religion and instead to become the founder -of “_l’école des images à tout prix_” is an especially striking form of -the contrast in romantic morality between the ideal and the real. - -The attempt that we have been studying to divorce beauty from ethics -led in the latter part of the eighteenth century to the rise of a -nightmare subject,--æsthetics. Shaftesbury indeed, as we have seen -already, anticipates the favorite romantic doctrine that beauty is -truth and truth beauty, which means in practice to rest both truth and -beauty upon a fluid emotionalism. Thus to deal æsthetically with truth -is an error of the first magnitude, but it is also an error, though -a less serious one, to see only the æsthetic element in beauty. For -beauty to be complete must have not only æsthetic perceptiveness but -order and proportion; and this brings us back again to the problem -of the ethical imagination and the permanent model or pattern with -reference to which it seeks to impose measure and proportion upon -sensuous perception and expansive desire. We should not hesitate to -say that beauty loses most of its meaning when divorced from ethics -even though every æsthete in the world should arise and denounce us as -philistines. To rest beauty upon feeling as the very name æsthetics -implies, is to rest it upon what is ever shifting. Nor can we escape -from this endless mobility with the aid of physical science, for -physical science does not itself rise above the naturalistic flux. -After eliminating from beauty the permanent pattern and the ethical -imagination with the aid of which it is perceived, a man will be ready -to term beautiful anything that reflects his ordinary or temperamental -self. Diderot is a sentimentalist and so he sees as much beauty in the -sentimentalist Richardson as in Homer. If a man is psychically restless -he will see beauty only in motion. The Italian futurist Marinetti says -that for him a rushing motor car is more beautiful than the Victory of -Samothrace. A complete sacrifice of the principle of repose in beauty -(which itself arises from the presence of the ethical imagination) -to the suggesting of motion such as has been seen in certain recent -schools, runs practically into a mixture of charlatanism and madness. -“He that is giddy thinks the world goes round,” says Shakespeare, -and the exponents of certain ultra-modern movements in painting are -simply trying to paint their inner giddiness. As a matter of fact the -pretension of the æsthete to have a purely personal vision of beauty -and then treat as a philistine every one who does not accept it, is -intolerable. Either beauty cannot be defined at all or we must say -that only is beautiful which seems so to the right kind of man, and -the right kind of man is plainly he whose total attitude towards life -is correct, who views life with some degree of imaginative wholeness, -which is only another way of saying that the problem of beauty is -inseparable from the ethical problem. In an absolute sense nobody can -see life steadily and see it whole; but we may at least move towards -steadiness and wholeness. The æsthete is plainly moving in an opposite -direction; he is becoming more and more openly a votary of the god -Whirl. His lack of inner form is an error not of æsthetics but of -general philosophy. - -The romantic imagination, the imagination that is not drawn back to -any ethical centre and so is free to wander wild in its own empire of -chimeras, has indeed a place in life. To understand what this place -is one needs to emphasize the distinction between art that has high -seriousness and art that is merely recreative. The serious moments of -life are moments of tension, of concentration on either the natural or -the human law. But Apollo cannot always be bending the bow. Man needs -at times to relax, and one way of relaxing is to take refuge for a -time in some land of chimeras, to follow the Arcadian gleam. He may -then come back to the real world, the world of active effort, solaced -and refreshed. But it is only with reference to some ethical centre -that we may determine what art is soundly recreative, in what forms -of adventure the imagination may innocently indulge. The romanticist -should recollect that among other forms of adventure is what Ben Jonson -terms “a bold adventure for hell”; and that a not uncommon nostalgia -is what the French call _la nostalgie de la boue_--man’s nostalgia for -his native mud. Because we are justified at times, as Lamb urges, in -wandering imaginatively beyond “the diocese of strict conscience,” it -does not follow that we may, like him, treat Restoration Comedy as a -sort of fairyland; for Restoration Comedy is a world not of pure but of -impure imagination. - -Lamb’s paradox, however, is harmless compared with what we have just -been seeing in Chateaubriand. With a dalliant imagination that entitles -him at best to play a recreative rôle, he sets up as a religious -teacher. Michelet again has been described as an “entertainer who -believes himself a prophet,” and this description fits many other -Rousseauists. The æsthete who assumes an apocalyptic pose is an -especially flagrant instance of the huddling together of incompatible -desires. He wishes to sport with Amaryllis in the shade and at the same -time enjoy the honors that belong only to the man who scorns delights -and lives laborious days. For the exercise of the ethical imagination, -it is hardly necessary to say, involves effort. Perhaps no one has -ever surpassed Rousseau himself in the art of which I have already -spoken,--that of giving to moral indolence a semblance of profound -philosophy. - -One cannot indeed always affirm that the Rousseauist is by the quality -of his imagination an entertainer pure and simple. His breaking down of -barriers and running together of the planes of being results at times -in ambiguous mixtures--gleams of insight that actually seem to minister -to fleshliness. One may cite as an example the “voluptuous religiosity” -that certain critics have discovered in Wagner. - -The romanticist will at once protest against the application of ethical -standards to Wagner or any other musician. Music, he holds, is the -most soulful of the arts and so the least subject to ethics. For the -same reason it is the chief of arts and also--in view of the fact that -romanticists have a monopoly of soul--the most romantic. One should not -allow to pass unchallenged this notion that because music is filled -with soul it is therefore subject to no ethical centre, but should be -treated as a pure enchantment. The Greeks were as a matter of fact much -concerned with the ethical quality of music. Certain musical modes, the -Doric for example, had as they believed a virile “soul,” other modes -like the Lydian had the contrary (“Lap me in soft Lydian airs”). For -the very reason that music is the most appealing of the arts (song, -says Aristotle, is the sweetest of all things) they were especially -anxious that this art should be guarded from perversion.[135] Without -attempting a full discussion of a difficult subject for which I have -no competency, it will be enough to point out that the plain song that -prevailed in Christian churches for over a thousand years evidently had -a very different “soul,” a soul that inspired to prayer and peace, from -much specifically romantic music that has a soul of restlessness, of -infinite indeterminate desire. The result of the failure to recognize -this distinction is very often a hybrid art. Berlioz showed a rather -peculiar conception of religion when he took pride in the fact that his -Requiem (!) Mass frightened one of the listeners into a fit. - -The ethical confusion that arises from the romantic cult of “soul” and -the closely allied tendency towards a hybrid art--art that lacks high -seriousness without being frankly recreative--may also be illustrated -from the field of poetry. Many volumes have been published and are -still being published on Browning as a philosophic and religious -teacher. But Browning can pass as a prophet only with the half-educated -person, the person who has lost traditional standards and has at the -same time failed to work out with the aid of the ethical imagination -some fresh scale of values and in the meanwhile lives impulsively and -glorifies impulse. Like the half-educated person, Browning is capable -of almost any amount of intellectual and emotional subtlety, and like -the half-educated person he is deficient in inner form: that is he -deals with experience impressionistically without reference to any -central pattern or purpose.[136] It is enough that the separate moments -of this experience should each stand forth like - - The quick sharp scratch - And blue spurt of a lighted match. - -One may take as an illustration of this drift towards the melodramatic -the “Ring and the Book.” The method of this poem is peripheral, that -is, the action is viewed not from any centre but as refracted through -the temperaments of the actors. The twelve monologues of which the -poem is composed illustrate the tendency of romantic writing to run -into some “song of myself” or “tale of my heart.” The “Ring and the -Book” is not only off the centre, but is designed to raise a positive -prejudice against everything that is central. Guido, for example, had -observed decorum, had done all the conventional things and is horrible. -Pompilia, the beautiful soul, had the great advantage of having had -an indecorous start. Being the daughter of a drab, she is not kept -from heeding the voice of nature. Caponsacchi again shows the beauty -of his soul by violating the decorum of the priesthood. This least -representative of priests wins our sympathy, not by his Christianity, -but by his lyrical intensity: - - O lyric love, half angel and half bird, - And all a wonder and a wild desire! - -Browning here escapes for once from the clogging intellectualism that -makes nearly all the “Ring and the Book” an indeterminate blend of -verse and prose, and achieves true poetry though not of the highest -type. The hybrid character of his art, due partly to a lack of outer -form, to a defective poetical technique, arises even more from a lack -of inner form--from an attempt to give a semblance of seriousness to -what is at bottom unethical. The aged Pope may well meditate on the -revolution that is implied in the substitution of the morality of the -beautiful soul for that of St. Augustine.[137] In seeming to accept -this revolution Browning’s Pope comes near to breaking all records, -even in the romantic movement, for paradox and indecorum. - -At bottom the war between humanist and romanticist is so irreconcilable -because the one is a mediator and the other an extremist. Browning -would have us admire his Pompilia because her love knows no limit;[138] -but a secular love like hers must know a limit, must be decorous in -short, if it is to be distinguished from mere emotional intensity. -It is evident that the romantic ideal of art for art’s sake meant in -the real world art for sensation’s sake. The glorification of a love -knowing no limit, that a Browning or a Hugo sets up as a substitute for -philosophy and even for religion, is therefore closely affiliated in -practice with the _libido sentiendi_. “It is hard,” wrote Stendhal, in -1817, “not to see what the nineteenth century desires. A love of strong -emotions is its true character.” The romantic tendency to push every -emotion to an extreme, regardless of decorum, is not much affected by -what the romanticist preaches or by the problems he agitates. Doudan -remarks of a mother who loses her child in Hugo’s “Nôtre Dame de -Paris,” that “her rage after this loss has nothing to equal it in the -roarings of a lioness or tigress who has been robbed of her young. She -becomes vulgar by excess of despair. It is the saturnalia of maternal -grief. You see that this woman belongs to a world in which neither the -instincts nor the passions have that divine aroma which imposes on them -some kind of measure--the dignity or decorum that contains a moral -principle; … When the passions no longer have this check, they should -be relegated to the menagerie along with leopards and rhinoceroses, -and, strange circumstance, when the passions do recognize this check -they produce more effect on the spectators than unregulated outbursts; -they give evidence of more depth.” This superlativeness, as one may -say, that Hugo displays in his picture of maternal grief is not -confined to the emotional romanticist. It appears, for example, among -the intellectual romanticists of the seventeenth century and affected -the very forms of language. Molière and others ridiculed the adjectives -and adverbs with which the _précieuses_ sought to express their special -type of superlativeness and intensity (_extrêmement_, _furieusement_, -_terriblement_, etc.). Alfred de Musset’s assertion that the chief -difference between classicist and romanticist is found in the latter’s -greater proneness to adjectives is not altogether a jest. It has been -said that the pessimist uses few, the optimist many adjectives; but the -use of adjectives and above all of superlatives would rather seem to -grow with one’s expansiveness, and no movement was ever more expansive -than that we are studying. Dante, according to Rivarol, is very sparing -of adjectives. His sentence tends to maintain itself by the verb -and substantive alone. In this as in other respects Dante is at the -opposite pole from the expansionist. - -The romantic violence of expression is at once a proof of “soul” and -a protest against the tameness and smugness of the pseudo-classicist. -The human volcano must overflow at times in a lava of molten words. -“Damnation!” cries Berlioz, “I could crush a red-hot iron between my -teeth.”[139] The disproportion between the outer incident and the -emotion that the Rousseauist expends on it is often ludicrous.[140] -The kind of force that the man attains who sees in emotional intensity -a mark of spiritual distinction, and deems moderation identical with -mediocrity, is likely to be the force of delirium or fever. What one -sees in “Werther,” says Goethe himself, is weakness seeking to give -itself the prestige of strength; and this remark goes far. There is in -some of the romanticists a suggestion not merely of spiritual but of -physical anæmia.[141] Still the intensity is often that of a strong -but unbridled spirit. Pleasure is pushed to the point where it runs -over into pain, and pain to the point where it becomes an auxiliary -of pleasure. The _âcre baiser_ of the “Nouvelle Héloïse” that so -scandalized Voltaire presaged even more than a literary revolution. The -poems of A. de Musset in particular contain an extraordinary perversion -of the Christian doctrine of purification through suffering. There -is something repellent to the genuine Christian as well as to the -worldling in what one is tempted to call Musset’s Epicurean cult of -pain.[142] - -Moments of superlative intensity whether of pleasure or pain must -in the nature of the case be brief--mere spasms or paroxysms; and -one might apply to the whole school the term paroxyst and spasmodist -assumed by certain minor groups during the past century. The -Rousseauist is in general loath to rein in his emotional vehemence, to -impair the zest with which he responds to the solicitations of sense, -by any reference to the “future and sum of time,” by any reference, -that is, to an ethical purpose. He would enjoy his thrill pure and -unalloyed, and this amounts in practice to the pursuit of the beautiful -or sensation-crowded moment. Saint-Preux says of the days spent with -Julie that a “sweet ecstasy” absorbed “their whole duration and -gathered it together in a point like that of eternity. There was for -me neither past nor future, and I enjoyed at one and the same time the -delights of a thousand centuries.”[143] The superlativist one might -suppose could go no further. But in the deliberate sacrifice of all -ethical values to the beautiful moment Browning has perhaps improved -even on Rousseau: - - Truth, that’s brighter than gem, - Trust, that’s purer than pearl,-- - Brightest truth, purest trust in the universe--all were for me - In the kiss of one girl. - -Browning entitles the poem from which I am quoting _Summum Bonum_. The -supreme good it would appear is identical with the supreme thrill. - -I have already said enough to make clear that the title of this -chapter and the last is in a way a misnomer. There is no such thing -as romantic morality. The innovations in ethics that are due to -romanticism reduce themselves on close scrutiny to a vast system of -naturalistic camouflage. To understand how this camouflage has been -so successful one needs to connect Rousseauism with the Baconian -movement. Scientific progress had inspired man with a new confidence -in himself at the same time that the positive and critical method -by which it had been achieved detached him from the past and its -traditional standards of good and evil. To break with tradition on -sound lines one needs to apply the utmost keenness of analysis not -merely to the natural but to the human law. But man’s analytical powers -were very much taken up with the new task of mastering the natural -law, so much so that he seemed incapable of further analytical effort, -but longed rather for relaxation from his sustained concentration of -intellect and imagination on the physical order. At the same time -he was so elated by the progress he was making in this order that -he was inclined to assume a similar advance on the moral plane and -to believe that this advance could also be achieved collectively. A -collective salvation of this kind without any need of a concentration -of the intellect and imagination is precisely what was opened up to -him by the Rousseauistic “ideal” of brotherhood. This “ideal,” as I -have tried to show, was only a projection of the Arcadian imagination -on the void. But in the abdication of analysis and critical judgment, -which would have reduced it to a purely recreative rôle, this Arcadian -dreaming was enabled to set up as a serious philosophy, and to expand -into innumerable Utopias. Many who might have taken alarm at the -humanitarian revolution in ethics were reassured by the very fervor -with which its promoters continued to utter the old words--conscience, -virtue, etc. No one puts more stress than Rousseau himself on -conscience, while in the very act of transforming conscience from an -inner check into an expansive emotion. - -We have seen that as a result of this transformation of conscience, -temperament is emancipated from both inner and outer control and that -this emancipation tends in the real world to the rise of two main -types--the Bohemian and the superman, both unprimitive, inasmuch as -primitive man is governed not by temperament but by convention; and -that what actually tends to prevail in such a temperamental world -in view of the superior “hardness” of the superman, is the law of -cunning and the law of force. So far as the Rousseauists set up the -mere emancipation of temperament as a serious philosophy, they are -to be held responsible for the results of this emancipation whether -displayed in the lust of power or the lust of sensation. But the -lust of power and the lust of sensation, such as they appear, for -example, in the so-called realism of the later nineteenth century, are -not in themselves identical with romanticism. Many of the realists, -like Flaubert, as I have already pointed out, are simply bitter and -disillusioned Rousseauists who are expressing their nausea at the -society that has actually arisen from the emancipation of temperament -in themselves and others. The essence of Rousseauistic as of other -romance, I may repeat, is to be found not in any mere fact, not even -in the fact of sensation, but in a certain quality of the imagination. -Rousseauism is, it is true, an emancipation of impulse, especially of -the impulse of sex. Practically all the examples I have chosen of the -tense and beautiful moment are erotic. But what one has even here, as -the imagination grows increasingly romantic, is less the reality than -the dream of the beautiful moment, an intensity that is achieved only -in the tower of ivory. This point can be made clear only by a fuller -study of the romantic conception of love. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -ROMANTIC LOVE - - -What first strikes one in Rousseau’s attitude towards love is the -separation, even wider here perhaps than elsewhere, between the ideal -and the real. He dilates in the “Confessions” on the difference of -the attachment that he felt when scarcely more than a boy for two -young women of Geneva, Mademoiselle Vulson and Mademoiselle Goton. His -attachment for the latter was real in a sense that Zola would have -understood. His attachment for Mademoiselle Vulson reminds one rather -of that of a mediæval knight for his lady. The same contrast runs -through Rousseau’s life. “Seamstresses, chambermaids, shop-girls,” he -says, “attracted me very little. I had to have fine ladies.”[144] So -much for the ideal; the real was Thérèse Levasseur. - -We are not to suppose that Rousseau’s love even when most ideal is -really exalted above the fleshly level. Byron indeed says of Rousseau -that “his was not the love of living dame but of ideal beauty,” and -if this were strictly true Rousseau might be accounted a Platonist. -But any particular beautiful object is for Plato only a symbol or -adumbration of a supersensuous beauty; so that an earthly love can be -at best only a stepping-stone to the Uranian Aphrodite. The terrestrial -and the heavenly loves are not in short run together, whereas the -essence of Rousseauistic love is this very blending. “Rousseau,” says -Joubert, “had a voluptuous mind. In his writings the soul is always -mingled with the body and never distinct from it. No one has ever -rendered more vividly the impression of the flesh touching the spirit -and the delights of their marriage.” I need not, however, repeat here -what I have said elsewhere[145] about this confusion of the planes of -being, perhaps the most important aspect of romantic love. - -Though Rousseau is not a true Platonist in his treatment of love, he -does, as I have said, recall at times the cult of the mediæval knight -for his lady. One may even find in mediæval love something that is -remotely related to Rousseau’s contrast between the ideal and the -actual; for in its attitude towards woman as in other respects the -Middle Ages tended to be extreme. Woman is either depressed below the -human level as the favorite instrument of the devil in man’s temptation -(_mulier hominis confusio_), or else exalted above this level as the -mother of God. The figure of Mary blends sense and spirit in a way that -is foreign to Plato and the ancients. As Heine says very profanely, -the Virgin was a sort of heavenly _dame du comptoir_ whose celestial -smile drew the northern barbarians into the Church. Sense was thus -pressed into the service of spirit at the risk of a perilous confusion. -The chivalric cult of the lady has obvious points of contact with the -worship of the Madonna. The knight who is raised from one height of -perfection to another by the light of his lady’s eyes is also pressing -sense into the service of spirit with the same risk that the process -may be reversed. The reversal actually takes place in Rousseau and his -followers: spirit is pressed into the service of sense in such wise as -to give to sense a sort of infinitude. Baudelaire pays his homage to a -Parisian grisette in the form of a Latin canticle to the Virgin.[146] -The perversion of mediæval love is equally though not quite so -obviously present in many other Rousseauists. - -I have said that the Middle Ages inclined to the extreme; mediæval -writers are, however, fond of insisting on “measure”; and this -is almost inevitable in view of the large amount of classical, -especially Aristotelian, survival throughout this period. But the two -distinctively mediæval types, the saint and the knight, are neither -of them mediators. They stand, however, on an entirely different -footing as regards the law of measure. Not even Aristotle himself would -maintain that the law of measure applies to saintliness, and in general -to the religious realm. The saint in so far as he is saintly has -undergone conversion, has in the literal sense of the word faced around -and is looking in an entirely different direction from that to which -the warnings “nothing too much” and “think as a mortal” apply. Very -different psychic elements may indeed appear in any particular saint. A -book has been published recently on the “Romanticism of St. Francis.” -The truth seems to be that though St. Francis had his romantic side, -he was even more religious than romantic. One may affirm with some -confidence of another mediæval figure, Peter the Hermit, that he was, -on the other hand, much more romantic than religious. For all the -information we have tends to show that he was a very restless person -and a man’s restlessness is ordinarily in inverse ratio to his religion. - -If the saint transcends in a way the law of measure, the knight on -the other hand should be subject to it. For courage and the love of -woman--his main interests in life--belong not to the religious but -to the secular realm. But in his conception of love and courage the -knight was plainly not a mediator but an extremist: he was haunted -by the idea of adventure, of a love and courage that transcend the -bounds not merely of the probable but of the possible. His imagination -is romantic in the sense I have tried to define--it is straining, -that is, beyond the confines of the real. Ruskin’s violent diatribe -against Cervantes[147] for having killed “idealism” by his ridicule -of these knightly exaggerations, is in itself absurd, but interesting -as evidence of the quality of Ruskin’s own imagination. Like other -romanticists I have cited, he seems to have been not unaware of his own -kinship to Don Quixote. The very truth about either the mediæval or -modern forms of romantic love--love which is on the secular level and -at the same time sets itself above the law of measure--was uttered by -Dr. Johnson in his comment on the heroic plays of Dryden: “By admitting -the romantic omnipotence of love he has recommended as laudable and -worthy of imitation that conduct which through all ages the good have -censured as vicious and the bad have despised as foolish.” - -The man of the Middle Ages, however extravagant in his imaginings, -was often no doubt terrestrial enough in his practice. The troubadour -who addressed his high-flown fancies to some fair châtelaine (usually -a married woman) often had relations in real life not unlike those -of Rousseau with Thérèse Levasseur. Some such contrast indeed between -the “ideal” and the “real” existed in the life of one of Rousseau’s -favorite poets, Petrarch. The lover may, however, run together the -ideal and the real. He may glorify some comparatively commonplace -person, crown as queen of his heart some Dulcinea del Toboso. Hazlitt -employs appropriately in describing his own passion for the vulgar -daughter of a London boarding-house keeper the very words of Cervantes: -“He had courted a statue, hunted the wind, cried aloud to the desert.” -Hazlitt like other lovers of this type is in love not with a particular -person but with his own dream. He is as one may say in love with love. -No subject indeed illustrates like this of love the nostalgia, the -infinite indeterminate desire of the romantic imagination. Something of -this diffusive longing no doubt came into the world with Christianity. -There is a wide gap between the sentence of St. Augustine that Shelley -has taken as epigraph for his “Alastor”[148] and the spirit of the -great Greek and Roman classics. Yet such is the abiding vitality of -Greek mythology that one finds in Greece perhaps the best symbol of -the romantic lover. Rousseau could not fail to be attracted by the -story of Pygmalion and Galatea. His lyrical “monodrama” in poetical -prose, “Pygmalion,” is important not only for its literary but for its -musical influence. The Germans in particular (including the youthful -Goethe) were fascinated. To the mature Goethe Rousseau’s account of the -sculptor who became enamored of his own creation and breathed into it -actual life by the sheer intensity of his desire seemed a delirious -confusion of the planes of being, an attempt to drag ideal beauty down -to the level of sensuous realization. But a passion thus conceived -exactly satisfies the romantic requirement. For though the romanticist -wishes to abandon himself to the rapture of love, he does not wish to -transcend his own ego. The object with which Pygmalion is in love is -after all only a projection of his own “genius.” But such an object is -not in any proper sense an object at all. There is in fact no object in -the romantic universe--only subject. This subjective love amounts in -practice to a use of the imagination to enhance emotional intoxication, -or if one prefers, to the pursuit of illusion for its own sake. - -This lack of definite object appears just as clearly in the German -symbol of romantic love--the blue flower. The blue flower resolves -itself at last, it will be remembered, into a fair feminine -face[149]--a face that cannot, however, be overtaken. The color -typifies the blue distance in which it always loses itself, “the -never-ending quest after the ever-fleeting object of desire.” The -object is thus elusive because, as I have said, it is not, properly -speaking, an object at all but only a dalliance of the imagination -with its own dream. Cats, says Rivarol, do not caress us, they caress -themselves upon us. But though cats may suffer from what the new -realist calls the egocentric predicament, they can scarcely vie in the -subtle involutions of their egoism with the romantic lover. Besides -creating the symbol of the blue flower, Novalis treats romantic love -in his unfinished tale “The Disciples at Saïs.” He contemplated two -endings to this tale--in the one, when the disciple lifts the veil -of the inmost sanctuary of the temple at Saïs, Rosenblütchen (the -equivalent of the blue flower) falls into his arms. In the second -version what he sees when he lifts the mysterious veil is--“wonder of -wonders--himself.” The two endings are in substance the same. - -The story of Novalis’s attachment for a fourteen-year-old girl, Sophie -von Kühn, and of his plans on her death for a truly romantic suicide--a -swooning away into the night--and then of the suddenness with which -he transferred his dream to another maiden, Julie von Charpentier, -is familiar. If Sophie had lived and Novalis had lived and they had -wedded, he might conceivably have made her a faithful husband, but she -would no longer have been the blue flower, the ideal. For one’s love -is for something infinitely remote; it is as Shelley says, in what is -perhaps the most perfect expression of romantic longing: - - The desire of the moth for the star, - Of the night for the morrow, - The devotion to something afar - From the sphere of our sorrow. - -The sphere of Shelley’s sorrow at the time he wrote these lines to Mrs. -Williams was Mary Godwin. In the time of Harriet Westbrook, Mary had -been the “star.” - -The romantic lover often feigns in explanation of his nostalgia -that in some previous existence he had been enamored of a nymph--an -Egeria--or a woman transcending the ordinary mould--“some Lilith or -Helen or Antigone.”[150] Shelley inquires eagerly in one of his letters -about the new poem by Horace Smith, “The Nympholept.” In the somewhat -unclassical sense that the term came to have in the romantic movement, -Shelley is himself the perfect example of the nympholept. In this -respect as in others, however, he merely continues Rousseau. “If it had -not been for some memories of my youth and Madame d’Houdetot,” says -Jean-Jacques, “the loves that I have felt and described would have been -only with sylphids.”[151] - -Chateaubriand speaks with aristocratic disdain of Rousseau’s Venetian -amours, but on the “ideal” side he is not only his follower but perhaps -the supreme French example of nympholepsy. He describes his lady of -dreams sometimes like Rousseau as the “sylphid,” sometimes as his -“phantom of love.” He had been haunted by this phantom almost from his -childhood. “Even then I glimpsed that to love and be loved in a way -that was unknown to me was destined to be my supreme felicity. … As a -result of the ardor of my imagination, my timidity and solitude, I did -not turn to the outer world, but was thrown back upon myself. In the -absence of a real object, I evoked by the power of my vague desires a -phantom that was never to leave me.” To those who remember the closely -parallel passages in Rousseau, Chateaubriand will seem to exaggerate -the privilege of the original genius to look on himself as unique when -he adds: “I do not know whether the history of the human heart offers -another example of this nature.”[152] The pursuit of this phantom of -love gives the secret key to Chateaubriand’s life. He takes refuge in -the American wilderness in order that he may have in this primitive -Arcadia a more spacious setting for his dream.[153] - -If one wishes to see how very similar these nympholeptic experiences -are not only from individual to individual, but from country to -country, one has only to compare the passages I have just been quoting -from Chateaubriand with Shelley’s “Epipsychidion.” Shelley writes of -his own youth: - - There was a Being whom my spirit oft - Met on its visioned wanderings, far aloft, - In the clear golden prime of my youth’s dawn, - Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn, - Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves - Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves - Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor - Paved her light steps; on an imagined shore, - Under the gray beak of some promontory - She met me, robed in such exceeding glory, - That I beheld her not, etc. - -At the time of writing “Epipsychidion” the magic vision happened to -have coalesced for the moment with Emilia Viviani, though destined soon -to flit elsewhere. Shelley invites his “soul’s sister,” the idyllic -“she,” who is at bottom only a projection of his own imagination, to -set sail with him for Arcady. “Epipsychidion,” indeed, might be used as -a manual to illustrate the difference between mere Arcadian dreaming -and a true Platonism. - -Chateaubriand is ordinarily and rightly compared with Byron rather -than with Shelley. He is plainly, however, far more of a nympholept -than Byron. Mr. Hilary, indeed, in Peacock’s “Nightmare Abbey” says -to Mr. Cypress (Byron): “You talk like a Rosicrucian, who will love -nothing but a sylph, who does not believe in the existence of a sylph, -and who yet quarrels with the whole universe for not containing a -sylph.”[154] Certain distinctions would have to be made if one were -attempting a complete study of love in Byron; yet after all the love of -Don Juan and Haidée is one that Sappho or Catullus or Burns would have -understood; and these poets were not nympholepts. They were capable -of burning with love, but not, as Rousseau says of himself, “without -any definite object.”[155] Where Chateaubriand has some resemblance -to Byron is in his actual libertinism. He is however nearer than -Byron to the libertine of the eighteenth century--to the Lovelace who -pushes the pursuit of pleasure to its final exasperation where it -becomes associated with the infliction of pain. Few things are stranger -than the blend in Chateaubriand of this Sadic fury[156] with the new -romantic revery. Indeed almost every type of egotism that may manifest -itself in the relations of the sexes and that pushed to the superlative -pitch, will be found in this theoretical classicist and champion of -Christianity. Perhaps no more frenzied cry has ever issued from human -lips than that uttered by Atala[157] in describing her emotions when -torn between her religious vow and her love for Chactas: “What dream -did not arise in this heart overwhelmed with sorrow. At times in fixing -my eyes upon you, I went so far as to form desires as insensate as -they were guilty; at one moment I seemed to wish that you and I were -the only living creatures upon the earth; and then again, feeling a -divinity that held me back in my horrible transports, I seemed to want -this divinity to be annihilated provided that clasped in your arms I -should roll from abyss to abyss with the ruins of God and the world.” -Longing is here pushed to a pitch where it passes over, as in Wagner’s -“Tristan and Isolde,” into the desire for annihilation. - -Actual libertinism is no necessary concomitant of nympholeptic longing. -There is a striking difference in this respect between Poe, for -example, and his translator and disciple, Baudelaire. Nothing could be -less suggestive of voluptuousness than Poe’s nostalgia. “His ecstasy,” -says Stedman, “is that of the nympholept seeking an evasive being of -whom he has glimpses by moonlight, starlight, even fenlight, but never -by noonday.” The embodiments of his dream that flit through his tales -and poems, enhanced his popularity with the ultra-romantic public in -France. These strange apparitions nearly all of whom are epileptic, -cataleptic, or consumptive made a natural appeal to a school that was -known among its detractors as _l’école poitrinaire_. “Tender souls,” -says Gautier, “were specially touched by Poe’s feminine figures, so -vaporous, so transparent and of an almost spectral beauty.” Perhaps -the nympholepsy of Gérard de Nerval is almost equally vaporous and -ethereal. He pursued through various earthly forms the queen of Sheba -whom he had loved in a previous existence and hanged himself at last -with what he believed to be her garter: an interesting example of the -relation between the extreme forms of the romantic imagination and -madness.[158] - -The pursuit of a phantom of love through various earthly forms led -in the course of the romantic movement to certain modifications -in a famous legend--that of Don Juan. What is emphasized in the -older Don Juan is not merely his libertinism but his impiety--the -gratification of his appetite in deliberate defiance of God. He is -animated by Satanic pride, by the lust of power as well as by the lust -of sensation. In Molière’s treatment of the legend we can also see -the beginnings of the philanthropic pose.[159] With the progress of -Rousseauism Don Juan tends to become an “idealist,” to seek to satisfy -in his amorous adventures not merely his senses but his “soul” and his -thirst for the “infinite.”[160] Along with this idealistic Don Juan we -also see appearing at a very early stage in the movement the exotic -Don Juan who wishes to have a great deal of strangeness added to his -beauty. In his affair with the “Floridiennes,” Chateaubriand shows the -way to a long series of exotic lovers. - - I said to my heart between sleeping and waking, - Thou wild thing that always art leaping or aching, - What black, brown or fair, in what clime, in what nation, - By turns has not taught thee a pit-a-pat-ation? - -These lines are so plainly meant for Pierre Loti that one learns -with surprise that they were written about 1724 by the Earl of -Peterborough.[161] - -Byron’s Don Juan is at times exotic in his tastes, but, as I have -said, he is not on the whole very nympholeptic--much less so than the -Don Juan of Alfred de Musset, for example. Musset indeed suggests in -many respects a less masculine Byron--Mademoiselle Byron as he has -been called. In one whole side of his art as well as his treatment -of love he simply continues like Byron the eighteenth century. But -far more than Byron he aspires to ideal and absolute passion; so that -the Musset of the “Nuits” is rightly regarded as one of the supreme -embodiments, and at the same time the chief martyr, of the romantic -religion of love. The outcome of his affair with George Sand may -symbolize fitly the wrecking of thousands of more obscure lives by this -mortal chimera. Musset and George Sand sought to come together, yet -what they each sought in love is what the original genius seeks in all -things--self-expression. What Musset saw in George Sand was not the -real woman but only his own dream. But George Sand was not content thus -to reflect back passively to Musset his ideal. She was rather a Galatea -whose ambition it was to create her own Pygmalion. “Your chimera is -between us,” Musset exclaims; but his chimera was between them too. -The more Titan and Titaness try to meet, the more each is driven back -into the solitude of his own ego. They were in love with love rather -than with one another: and to be thus in love with love means on the -last analysis to be in love with one’s own emotions. “To love,” says -Musset, “is the great point. What matters the mistress? What matters -the flagon provided one have the intoxication?”[162] He then proceeds -to carry a love of this quality up into the presence of God and to -present it to him as his justification for having lived. The art of -speaking in tones of religious consecration of what is in its essence -egoistic has never been carried further than by the Rousseauistic -romanticist. God is always appearing at the most unexpected -moments.[163] The highest of which man is capable apparently is to put -an uncurbed imagination into the service of an emancipated temperament. -The credo that Perdican recites at the end of the second act of “On ne -badine pas avec l’Amour”[164] throws light on this point. Men and women -according to this credo are filled with every manner of vileness, yet -there is something “sacred and sublime,” and that is the union of two -of these despicable beings. - -The confusion of ethical values here is so palpable as scarcely to call -for comment. It is precisely when men and women set out to love with -this degree of imaginative and emotional unrestraint that they come -to deserve all the opprobrious epithets Musset heaps upon them. This -radiant apotheosis of love and the quagmire in which it actually lands -one is, as I have said, the whole subject of “Madame Bovary.” I shall -need to return to this particular disproportion between the ideal and -the real when I take up the subject of romantic melancholy. - -The romantic lover who identifies the ideal with the superlative thrill -is turning the ideal into something very transitory. If the _summum -bonum_ is as Browning avers the “kiss of one girl,” the _summum bonum_ -is lost almost as soon as found. The beautiful moment may however be -prolonged in revery. The romanticist may brood over it in the tower of -ivory, and when thus enriched by being steeped in his temperament it -may become more truly his own than it was in reality. “Objects make -less impression upon me than my memory of them,” says Rousseau. He is -indeed the great master of what has been termed the art of impassioned -recollection. This art is far from being confined in its application -to love, though it may perhaps be studied here to the best advantage. -Rousseau, one should note, had very little intellectual memory, but -an extraordinarily keen memory of images and sensations. He could -not, as he tells us in the “Confessions,” learn anything by heart, -but he could recall with perfect distinctness what he had eaten for -breakfast about thirty years before. In general he recalls his past -feelings with a clearness and detail that are perhaps more feminine -than masculine. “He seems,” says Hazlitt, one of his chief disciples -in the art of impassioned recollection, “to gather up the past moments -of his being like drops of honey-dew to distil a precious liquor from -them; his alternate pleasures and pains are the bead-roll that he tells -over and piously worships; he makes a rosary of the flowers of hope -and fancy that strewed his earliest years.”[165] This highly developed -emotional memory is closely associated with the special quality of the -romantic imagination--its cult of Arcadian illusion and the wistful -backward glance to the vanished paradise of childhood and youth when -illusion was most spontaneous. “Let me still recall [these memories],” -says Hazlitt, “that they may breathe fresh life into me, and that I -may live that birthday of thought and romantic pleasure over again! -Talk of the ideal! This is the only true ideal--the heavenly tints -of Fancy reflected in the bubbles that float upon the spring-tide of -human life.”[166] Hazlitt converts criticism itself into an art of -impassioned recollection. He loves to linger over the beautiful moments -of his own literary life. The passing years have increased the richness -of their temperamental refraction and bestowed upon them the “pathos of -distance.” A good example is his account of the two years of his youth -he spent in reading the “Confessions” and the “Nouvelle Héloïse,” and -in shedding tears over them. “They were the happiest years of our life. -We may well say of them, sweet is the dew of their memory and pleasant -the balm of their recollection.”[167] - -Rousseau’s own Arcadian memories are usually not of reading, like -Hazlitt’s, but of actual incidents, though he does not hesitate to -alter these incidents freely, as in his account of his stay at Les -Charmettes, and to accommodate them to his dream. He neglected the real -Madame de Warens at the very time that he cherished his recollection of -her because this recollection was the idealized image of his own youth. -The yearning that he expresses at the beginning of his fragmentary -Tenth Promenade, written only a few weeks before his death, is for this -idyllic period rather than for an actual woman.[168] A happy memory, -says Musset, repeating Rousseau, is perhaps more genuine than happiness -itself. Possibly the three best known love poems of Lamartine, Musset, -and Hugo respectively--“Le Lac,” “Souvenir,” and “La Tristesse -d’Olympio,” all hinge upon impassioned recollection and derive very -directly from Rousseau. Lamartine in particular has caught in the “Le -Lac” the very cadence of Rousseau’s reveries.[169] - -Impassioned recollection may evidently be an abundant source of genuine -poetry, though not, it must be insisted, of the highest poetry. The -predominant rôle that it plays in Rousseau and many of his followers -is simply a sign of an unduly dalliant imagination. Experience after -all has other uses than to supply furnishings for the tower of ivory; -it should control the judgment and guide the will; it is in short the -necessary basis of conduct. The greater a man’s moral seriousness, -the more he will be concerned with doing rather than dreaming (and -I include right meditation among the forms of doing). He will also -demand an art and literature that reflect this his main preoccupation. -Between Wordsworth’s definition of poetry as “emotion recollected in -tranquillity,” and Aristotle’s definition of poetry as the imitation -of human action according to probability or necessity, a wide gap -plainly opens. One may prefer Aristotle’s definition to that of -Wordsworth and yet do justice to the merits of Wordsworth’s actual -poetical performance. Nevertheless the tendency to put prime emphasis -on feeling instead of action shown in the definition is closely related -to Wordsworth’s failure not only in dramatic but in epic poetry, in all -poetry in short that depends for its success on an element of plot and -sustained narrative. - -A curious extension of the art of impassioned recollection should -receive at least passing mention. It has been so extended as to lead -to what one may term an unethical use of literature and history. What -men have done in the past and the consequences of this doing should -surely serve to throw some light on what men should do under similar -circumstances in the present. But the man who turns his own personal -experience into mere dalliance may very well assume a like dalliant -attitude towards the larger experience of the race. This experience -may merely provide him with pretexts for revery. This narcotic use of -literature and history, this art of creating for one’s self an alibi as -Taine calls it, is nearly as old as the romantic movement. The record -of the past becomes a gorgeous pageant that lures one to endless -imaginative exploration and lulls one to oblivion of everything except -its variety and picturesqueness. It becomes everything in fact except a -school of judgment. One may note in connection with this use of history -the usual interplay between scientific and emotional naturalism. -Both forms of naturalism tend to turn man into the mere product and -plaything of physical forces--climate, heredity, and the like, over -which his will has no control. Since literature and history have no -meaning from the point of view of moral choice they may at least be -made to yield the maximum of æsthetic satisfaction. Oscar Wilde argues -in this wise for example in his dialogue “The Critic as Artist,” and -concludes that since man has no moral freedom or responsibility, and -cannot therefore be guided in his conduct by the past experience of the -race, he may at least turn this experience into an incomparable “bower -of dreams.” “The pain of Leopardi crying out against life becomes -our pain. Theocritus blows on his pipe and we laugh with the lips of -nymph and shepherd. In the wolf-skin of Pierre Vidal we flee before -the hounds, and in the armor of Lancelot we ride from the bower of the -queen. We have whispered the secret of our love beneath the cowl of -Abelard, and in the stained raiment of Villon have put our shame into -song,” etc. - -The assumption that runs through this passage that the mere æsthetic -contemplation of past experience gives the equivalent of actual -experience is found in writers of far higher standing than Wilde--in -Renan, for instance. The æsthete would look on his dream as a -substitute for the actual, and at the same time convert the actual -into a dream. (_Die Welt wird Traum, der Traum wird Welt._) It is -not easy to take such a programme of universal dreaming seriously. -In the long run the dreamer himself does not find it easy to take it -seriously. For his attempts to live his chimera result, as we have -seen in the case of romantic love, in more or less disastrous defeat -and disillusion. The disillusioned romanticist continues to cling to -his dream, but intellectually, at least, he often comes at the same -time to stand aloof from it. This subject of disillusion may best be -considered, along with certain other important aspects of the movement, -in connection with the singular phenomenon known as romantic irony. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -ROMANTIC IRONY - - -The first romanticist who worked out a theory of irony was Friedrich -Schlegel.[170] The attempt to put this theory into practice, after -the fashion of Tieck’s plays, seemed and seemed rightly even to later -representatives of the movement to be extravagant. Thus Hegel, who -in his ideas on art continues in so many respects the Schlegels, -repudiates irony. Formerly, says Heine, who is himself in any larger -survey, the chief of German romantic ironists, when a man had said a -stupid thing he had said it; now he can explain it away as “irony.” -Nevertheless one cannot afford to neglect this early German theory. -It derives in an interesting way from the views that the partisans -of original genius had put forth regarding the rôle of the creative -imagination. The imagination as we have seen is to be free to wander -wild in its own empire of chimeras. Rousseau showed the possibilities -of an imagination that is at once extraordinarily rich and also -perfectly free in this sense. I have said that Kant believed like the -original genius that the nobility of art depends on the free “play” -of the imagination; though he adds that art should at the same time -submit to a purpose that is not a purpose--whatever that may mean. -Schiller in his “Æsthetic Letters” relaxed the rationalistic rigor of -Kant in favor of feeling and associated even more emphatically the -ideality and creativeness of art with its free imaginative play, -its emancipation from specific aim. The personal friction that arose -between the Schlegels and Schiller has perhaps obscured somewhat their -general indebtedness to him. The Schlegelian irony in particular merely -pushes to an extreme the doctrine that nothing must interfere with -the imagination in its creative play. “The caprice of the poet,” as -Friedrich Schlegel says, “suffers no law above itself.” Why indeed -should the poet allow any restriction to be placed upon his caprice in -a universe that is after all only a projection of himself? The play -theory of art is here supplemented by the philosophy of Fichte.[171] -In justice to him it should be said that though his philosophy may -not rise above the level of temperament, he at least had a severe and -stoical temperament, and if only for this reason his “transcendental -ego” is far less obviously ego than that which appears in the irony -of his romantic followers. When a man has taken possession of his -transcendental ego, according to the Schlegels and Novalis, he looks -down on his ordinary ego and stands aloof from it. His ordinary ego may -achieve poetry but his transcendental ego must achieve the poetry of -poetry. But there is in him something that may stand aloof even from -this aloofness and so on indefinitely. Romantic irony joins here with -what is perhaps the chief preoccupation of the German romanticists, the -idea of the infinite or, as they term it, the striving for endlessness -(_Unendlichkeitstreben_). Now, according to the romanticist, a man -can show that he lays hold imaginatively upon the infinite only by -expanding beyond what his age holds to be normal and central--its -conventions in short; nay more, he must expand away from any centre he -has himself achieved. For to hold fast to a centre of any kind implies -the acceptance of limitations and to accept limitations is to be -finite, and to be finite is, as Blake says, to become mechanical; and -the whole of romanticism is a protest against the mechanizing of life. -No man therefore deserves to rank as a transcendental egotist unless -he has learned to mock not merely at the convictions of others but at -his own, unless he has become capable of self-parody. “Objection,” says -Nietzsche, “evasion, joyous distrust, and love of irony are signs of -health; everything absolute belongs to pathology.”[172] - -One cannot repeat too often that what the romanticist always sees at -the centre is either the mere rationalist or else the philistine; and -he therefore inclines to measure his own distinction by his remoteness -from any possible centre. Now thus to be always moving away from -centrality is to be paradoxical, and romantic irony is, as Friedrich -Schlegel says, identical with paradox. Irony, paradox and the idea of -the infinite have as a matter of fact so many points of contact in -romanticism that they may profitably be treated together. - -Friedrich Schlegel sought illustrious sponsors in the past for his -theory of irony. Among others he invoked the Greeks and put himself in -particular under the patronage of Socrates. But Greek irony always had -a centre. The ironical contrast is between this centre and something -that is less central. Take for example the so-called irony of Greek -tragedy. The tragic character speaks and acts in darkness as to -his impending doom, regarding which the spectator is comparatively -enlightened. To take another example, the German romanticists -were especially absurd in their attempts to set up Tieck as a new -Aristophanes. For Aristophanes, however wild and irresponsible he may -seem in the play of his imagination, never quite loses sight of his -centre, a centre from which the comic spirit proceeds and to which it -returns. Above all, however far he may push his mockery, he never mocks -at his own convictions; he never, like Tieck, indulges in self-parody. -A glance at the parabasis of almost any one of his plays will suffice -to show that he was willing to lay himself open to the charge of -being unduly didactic rather than to the charge of being aimless. The -universe of Tieck, on the other hand, is a truly romantic universe: it -has no centre, or what amounts to the same thing, it has at its centre -that symbol of spiritual stagnation, the philistine, and his inability -to rise above a dull didacticism. The romanticist cherishes the -illusion that to be a spiritual vagrant is to be exalted on a pinnacle -above the plain citizen. According to Professor Stuart P. Sherman, the -Irish dramatist Synge indulges in gypsy laughter from the bushes,[173] -a good description of romantic irony in general. - -The irony of Socrates, to take the most important example of Greek -irony, is not of the centrifugal character. Socrates professes -ignorance, and this profession seems very ironical, for it turns out -that his ignorance is more enlightened, that is, more central than -other men’s swelling conceit of knowledge. It does not follow that -Socrates is insincere in his profession of ignorance; for though his -knowledge may be as light in comparison with that of the ordinary -Athenian, he sees that in comparison with true and perfect knowledge it -is only darkness. For Socrates was no mere rationalist; he was a man of -insight, one would even be tempted to say a mystic were it not for the -corruption of the term mystic by the romanticists. This being the case -he saw that man is by his very nature precluded from true and perfect -knowledge. A path, however, opens up before him towards this knowledge, -and this path he should seek to follow even though it is in a sense -endless, even though beyond any centre he can attain within the bounds -of his finite experience there is destined always to be something still -more central. Towards the mere dogmatist, the man who thinks he has -achieved some fixed and final centre, the attitude of Socrates is that -of scepticism. This attitude implies a certain degree of detachment -from the received beliefs and conventions of his time, and it is -all the more important to distinguish here between Socrates and the -romanticists because of the superficial likeness; and also because -there is between the Rousseauists and some of the Greeks who lived -about the time of Socrates a real likeness. Promethean individualism -was already rife at that time, and on the negative side it resulted -then as since in a break with tradition, and on the positive side in an -oscillation between the cult of force and the exaltation of sympathy, -between admiration for the strong man and compassion for the weak. It -is hardly possible to overlook these Promethean elements in the plays -of Euripides. Antisthenes and the cynics, again, who professed to -derive from Socrates, established an opposition between “nature” and -convention even more radical in some respects than that established -by Rousseau. Moreover Socrates himself was perhaps needlessly -unconventional and also unduly inclined to paradox--as when he -suggested to the jury who tried him that as an appropriate punishment -he should be supported at the public expense in the prytaneum. Yet in -his inner spirit and in spite of certain minor eccentricities, Socrates -was neither a superman nor a Bohemian, but a humanist. Now that the -critical spirit was abroad and the traditional basis for conduct was -failing, he was chiefly concerned with putting conduct on a positive -and critical basis. In establishing this basis his constant appeal is -to actual experience and the more homely this experience the more it -seems to please him. While working out the new basis for conduct he -continues to observe the existing laws and customs; or if he gets away -from the traditional discipline it is towards a stricter discipline; -if he repudiates in aught the common sense of his day, it is in -favor of a commoner sense. One may say indeed that Socrates and the -Rousseauists (who are in this respect like some of the sophists) are -both moving away from convention but in opposite directions. What the -romanticist opposes to convention is his “genius,” that is his unique -and private self. What Socrates opposes to convention is his universal -and ethical self. According to Friedrich Schlegel, a man can never be a -philosopher but only become one; if at any time he thinks that he is a -philosopher he ceases to become one. The romanticist is right in thus -thinking that to remain fixed at any particular point is to stagnate. -Man is, as Nietzsche says, the being who must always surpass himself, -but he has--and this is a point that Nietzsche did not sufficiently -consider--a choice of direction in his everlasting pilgrimage. The -man who is moving away from some particular centre will always seem -paradoxical to the man who remains at it, but he may be moving away -from it in either the romantic or the ethical direction. In the first -case he is moving from a more normal to a less normal experience, -in the second case he is moving towards an experience that is more -profoundly representative. The New Testament abounds in examples of the -ethical paradox--what one may term the paradox of humility. (A man must -lose his life to find it, etc.) It is possible, however, to push even -this type of paradox too far, to push it to a point where it affronts -not merely some particular convention but the good sense of mankind -itself, and this is a far graver matter. Pascal falls into this excess -when he says that sickness is the natural state of the Christian. As a -result of its supreme emphasis on humility Christianity from the start -inclined unduly perhaps towards this type of paradox. It is hardly -worth while, as Goethe said, to live seventy years in this world if all -that one learn here below is only folly in the sight of God. - -One of the most delicate of tasks is to determine whether a paradox -occupies a position more or less central than the convention to which -it is opposed. A somewhat similar problem is to determine which of -two differing conventions has the greater degree of centrality. For -one convention may as compared with another seem highly paradoxical. -In 1870, it was announced at Peking that his Majesty the Emperor had -had the good fortune to catch the small-pox. The auspiciousness of -small-pox was part of the Chinese convention at this time, but to -those of us who live under another convention it is a blessing we would -willingly forego. But much in the Chinese convention, so far from being -absurd, reflects the Confucian good sense, and if the Chinese decide to -break with their convention, they should evidently consider long and -carefully in which direction they are going to move--whether towards -something more central, or something more eccentric. - -As to the direction in which Rousseau is moving and therefore as -to the quality of his paradoxes there can be little question. His -paradoxes--and he is perhaps the most paradoxical of writers--reduce -themselves on analysis to the notion that man has suffered a loss of -goodness by being civilized, by having had imposed on his unconscious -and instinctive self some humanistic or religious discipline--e.g., -“The man who reflects is a depraved animal”; “True Christians are meant -to be slaves”; decorum is only the “varnish of vice” or the “mask of -hypocrisy.” Innumerable paradoxes of this kind will immediately occur -to one as characteristic of Rousseau and his followers. These paradoxes -may be termed in opposition to those of humility, the paradoxes of -spontaneity. The man who holds them is plainly moving in an opposite -direction not merely from the Christian but from the Socratic -individualist. He is moving from the more representative to the less -representative and not towards some deeper centre of experience, -as would be the case if he were tending towards either humanism or -religion. Wordsworth has been widely accepted not merely as a poet but -as a religious teacher, and it is therefore important to note that his -paradoxes are prevailingly of the Rousseauistic type. His verse is -never more spontaneous or, as he would say, inevitable, than when it -is celebrating the gospel of spontaneity. I have already pointed out -some of the paradoxes that he opposes to pseudo-classic decorum: e.g., -his attempt to bestow poetical dignity and importance upon the ass, -and to make of it a model of moral excellence, also to find poetry in -an idiot boy and to associate sublimity with a pedlar in defiance of -the ordinary character of pedlars. In general Wordsworth indulges in -Rousseauistic paradoxes when he urges us to look to peasants for the -true language of poetry and would have us believe that man is taught -by “woods and rills” and not by contact with his fellow men. He pushes -this latter paradox to a point that would have made even Rousseau -“stare and gasp” when he asserts that - - One impulse from a vernal wood - May teach you more of man - Of moral evil and of good - Than all the sages can. - -Another form of this same paradox that what comes from nature -spontaneously is better than what can be acquired by conscious effort -is found in his poem “Lucy Gray”: - - No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; - She dwelt on a wide moor, - The sweetest thing that ever grew - Beside a human door! - -True maidenhood is made up of a thousand decorums; but this -Rousseauistic maiden would have seemed too artificial if she had been -reared in a house instead of “growing” out of doors; she might in -that case have been a human being and not a “thing” and this would -plainly have detracted from her spontaneity. Wordsworth’s paradoxes -about children have a similar origin. A child who at the age of six -is a “mighty prophet, seer blest,” is a highly improbable not to say -impossible child. The “Nature” again of “Heart-Leap Well” which both -feels and inspires pity is more remote from normal experience than the -Nature “red in tooth and claw” of Tennyson. Wordsworth indeed would -seem to have a penchant for paradox even when he is less obviously -inspired by his naturalistic thesis. - -A study of Wordsworth’s life shows that he became progressively -disillusioned regarding Rousseauistic spontaneity. He became less -paradoxical as he grew older and in almost the same measure, one is -tempted to say, less poetical. He returns gradually to the traditional -forms until radicals come to look upon him as the “lost leader.” He -finds it hard, however, to wean his imagination from its primitivistic -Arcadias; so that what one finds, in writing like the “Ecclesiastical -Sonnets,” is not imaginative fire but at best a sober intellectual -conviction, an opposition between the head and the heart in short that -suggests somewhat Chateaubriand and the “Genius of Christianity.”[174] -If Wordsworth had lost faith in his revolutionary and naturalistic -ideal, and had at the same time refused to return to the traditional -forms, one might then have seen in his work something of the homeless -hovering of the romantic ironist. If, on the other hand, he had -worked away from the centre that the traditional forms give to life -towards a more positive and critical centre, if, in other words, -he had broken with the past not on Rousseauistic, but on Socratic -lines, he would have needed an imagination of different quality, an -imagination less idyllic and pastoral and more ethical than that he -usually displays.[175] For the ethical imagination alone can guide one -not indeed to any fixed centre but to an ever increasing centrality. -We are here confronted once more with the question of the infinite -which comes very close to the ultimate ground of difference between -classicist and romanticist. The centre that one perceives with the -aid of the classical imagination and that sets bounds to impulse and -desire may, as I have already said, be defined in opposition to the -outer infinite of expansion as the inner or human infinite. If we -moderns, to repeat Nietzsche, are unable to attain proportionateness -it is because “our itching is really the itching for the infinite, -the immeasurable.” Thus to associate the infinite only with the -immeasurable, to fail to perceive that the element of form and the curb -it puts on the imagination are not external and artificial, but come -from the very depths, is to betray the fact that one is a barbarian. -Nietzsche and many other romanticists are capable on occasion of -admiring the proportionateness that comes from allegiance to some -centre. But after all the human spirit must be ever advancing, and -its only motive powers, according to romantic logic, are wonder and -curiosity; and so from the perfectly sound premise that man is the -being who must always surpass himself, Nietzsche draws the perfectly -unsound conclusion that the only way for man thus constantly to surpass -himself and so show his infinitude is to spurn all limits and “live -dangerously.” The Greeks themselves, according to Renan, will some -day seem the “apostles of ennui,” for the very perfection of their -form shows a lack of aspiration. To submit to form is to be static, -whereas “romantic poetry,” says Friedrich Schlegel magnificently, is -“universal progressive poetry.” Now the only effective counterpoise to -the endless expansiveness that is implied in such a programme is the -inner or human infinite of concentration. For it is perfectly true that -there is something in man that is not satisfied with the finite and -that, if he becomes stationary, he is at once haunted by the spectre -of ennui. Man may indeed be defined as the insatiable animal; and the -more imaginative he is the more insatiable he is likely to become, for -it is the imagination that gives him access to the infinite in every -sense of the word. In a way Baudelaire is right when he describes -ennui as a “delicate monster” that selects as his prey the most highly -gifted natures. Marguerite d’Angoulême already speaks of the “ennui -proper to well-born spirits.” Now religion seeks no less than romance -an escape from ennui. Bossuet is at one with Baudelaire when he -dilates on that “inexorable ennui which is the very substance of human -life.” But Bossuet and Baudelaire differ utterly in the remedies they -propose for ennui. Baudelaire hopes to escape from ennui by dreaming -of the superlative emotional adventure, by indulging in infinite, -indeterminate desire, and becomes more and more restless in his quest -for a something that at the end always eludes him. This infinite of -nostalgia has nothing in common with the infinite of religion. No -distinction is more important than that between the man who feels the -divine discontent of religion, and the man who is suffering from -mere romantic restlessness. According to religion man must seek the -satisfaction that the finite fails to give by looking not without but -within; and to look within he must in the literal sense of the word -undergo conversion. A path will then be found to open up before him, a -path of which he cannot see the end. He merely knows that to advance -on this path is to increase in peace, poise, centrality; though beyond -any calm he can attain is always a deeper centre of calm. The goal -is at an infinite remove. This is the truth that St. Augustine puts -theologically when he exclaims: “For thou hast made us for thyself -and our heart is restless until it findeth peace in thee.”[176] One -should insist that this question of the two infinites is not abstract -and metaphysical but bears on what is most concrete and immediate -in experience. If the inner and human infinite cannot be formulated -intellectually, it can be known practically in its effect on life and -conduct. Goethe says of Werther that he “treated his heart like a sick -child; its every wish was granted it.” “My restless heart asked me -for something else,” says Rousseau. “René,” says Chateaubriand, “was -enchanted, tormented and, as it were, possessed by the demon of his -heart.” Mr. Galsworthy speaks in a similar vein of “the aching for the -wild, the passionate, the new, that never quite dies in a man’s heart.” -But is there not deep down in the human breast another heart that is -felt as a power of control over this romantic heart and can keep within -due bounds “its aching for the wild, the passionate, the new.” This is -the heart, it would seem, to which a man must hearken if he is not for -a “little honey of romance” to abandon his “ancient wisdom and austere -control.” - -The romantic corruption of the infinite here joins with the romantic -corruption of conscience, the transformation of conscience from an -inner check into an expansive emotion that I have already traced in -Shaftesbury and Rousseau. But one should add that in some of its -aspects this corruption of the idea of the infinite antedates the -whole modern movement. At least the beginnings of it can be found in -ancient Greece,--especially in that “delirious and diseased Greece” -of which Joubert speaks--the Greece of the neo-Platonists. There is -already in the neo-Platonic notion of the infinite a strong element -of expansiveness. Aristotle and the older Greeks conceived of the -infinite in this sense as bad. That something in human nature which -is always reaching out for more--whether the more of sensation or of -power or of knowledge--was, they held, to be strictly reined in and -disciplined to the law of measure. All the furies lie in wait for the -man who overextends himself. He is ripening for Nemesis. “Nothing too -much.” “Think as a mortal.” “The half is better than the whole.” In his -attitude towards man’s expansive self the Greek as a rule stands for -mediation, and not like the more austere Christian, for renunciation. -Yet Plato frequently and Aristotle at times mount from the humanistic -to the religious level. One of the most impressive passages in -philosophy is that in which Aristotle, perhaps the chief exponent of -the law of measure, affirms that one who has really faced about and -is moving towards the inner infinite needs no warning against excess: -“We should not give heed,” he says, “to those who bid one think as -a mortal, but so far as we can we should make ourselves immortal and -do all with a view to a life in accord with the best Principle in -us.”[177] (This Principle Aristotle goes on to say is a man’s true -self.) - -The earlier Greek distinction between an outer and evil infinite -of expansive desire and an inner infinite that is raised above the -flux and yet rules it, is, in the Aristotelian phrase, its “unmoved -mover,” became blurred, as I have said, during the Alexandrian period. -The Alexandrian influence entered to some extent into Christianity -itself and filtered through various channels down to modern times. -Some of the romanticists went directly to the neo-Platonists, -especially Plotinus. Still more were affected by Jacob Boehme, who -himself had no direct knowledge of the Alexandrian theosophy. This -theosophy appears nevertheless in combination with other elements in -his writings. He appealed to the new school by his insistence on the -element of appetency or desire, by his universal symbolizing, above -all by his tendency to make of the divine an affirmative instead of a -restrictive force--a something that pushes forward instead of holding -back. The expansive elements are moderated in Boehme himself and in -disciples like Law by genuinely religious elements--e.g., humility -and the idea of conversion. What happens when the expansiveness is -divorced from these elements, one may see in another English follower -of Boehme--William Blake. To be both beautiful and wise one needs, -according to Blake, only to be exuberant. The influence of Boehme -blends in Blake with the new æstheticism. Jesus himself, he says, so -far from being restrained “was all virtue, and acted from impulse not -from rules.” This purely æsthetic and impulsive Jesus has been cruelly -maligned, as we learn from the poem entitled the “Everlasting Gospel,” -by being represented as humble and chaste. Religion itself thus becomes -in Blake the mere sport of a powerful and uncontrolled imagination, -and this we are told is mysticism. I have already contrasted with -this type of mysticism something that goes under the same name and -is yet utterly different--the mysticism of ancient India. Instead -of conceiving of the divine in terms of expansion the Oriental sage -defines it experimentally as the “inner check.” No more fundamental -distinction perhaps can be made than that between those who associate -the good with the yes-principle and those who associate it rather with -the no-principle. But I need not repeat what I have said elsewhere on -the romantic attempt to discredit the veto power. Let no one think -that this contrast is merely metaphysical. The whole problem of evil -is involved in it and all the innumerable practical consequences that -follow from one’s attitude towards this problem. The passage in which -Faust defines the devil as the “spirit that always says no” would seem -to derive directly or indirectly from Boehme. According to Boehme -good can be known only through evil. God therefore divides his will -into two, the “yes” and the “no,” and so founds an eternal contrast -to himself in order to enter into a struggle with it, and finally to -discipline and assimilate it. The object of all manifested nature -is the transforming of the will which says “no” into the will which -says “yes.”[178] The opposition between good and evil tends to lose -its reality when it thus becomes a sort of sham battle that God gets -up with himself (without contraries is no progression, says Blake), -or when, to take the form that the doctrine assumes in “Faust,” the -devil appears as the necessary though unwilling instrument of man’s -betterment. The recoil from the doctrine of total depravity was perhaps -inevitable. What is sinister is that advantage has been taken of this -recoil to tamper with the problem of evil itself. Partial evil we are -told is universal good; or else evil is only good in the making. For -a Rousseau or a Shelley it is something mysteriously imposed from -without on a spotless human nature; for a Wordsworth it is something -one may escape by contemplating the speargrass on the wall.[179] For a -Novalis sin is a mere illusion of which a man should rid his mind if he -aspires to become a “magic idealist.”[180] In spite of his quaint Tory -prejudices Dr. Johnson is one of the few persons in recent times that -one may term wise without serious qualification because he never dodges -or equivocates in dealing with the problem of evil; he never fades away -from the fact of evil into some theosophic or sentimental dream. - -The rise of a purely expansive view of life in the eighteenth century -was marked by a great revival of enthusiasm. The chief grievance of -the expansionist indeed against the no-principle is that it kills -enthusiasm. But concentration no less than expansion may have its own -type of enthusiasm. It is therefore imperative in an age that has -repudiated the traditional sanctions and set out to walk by the inner -light that all general terms and in particular the term enthusiasm -should be protected by a powerful dialectic. Nothing is more perilous -than an uncritical enthusiasm, since it is only by criticism that one -may determine whether the enthusiast is a man who is moving towards -wisdom or is a candidate for Bedlam. The Rousseauist, however, exalts -enthusiasm at the same time that he depreciates discrimination. -“Enthusiasm,” says Emerson, “is the height of man. It is the passage -from the human to the divine.” It is only too characteristic of Emerson -and of the whole school to which he belongs, to put forth statements of -this kind without any dialectical protection. The type of enthusiasm -to which Emerson’s praise might be properly applied, the type that -has been defined as exalted peace, though extremely rare, actually -exists. A commoner type of enthusiasm during the past century is that -which has been defined as “the rapturous disintegration of civilized -human nature.” When we have got our fingers well burned as a result of -our failure to make the necessary discriminations, we may fly to the -opposite extreme like the men of the early eighteenth century among -whom, as is well known, enthusiasm had become a term of vituperation. -This dislike of enthusiasm was the natural recoil from the uncritical -following of the inner light by the fanatics of the seventeenth -century. Shaftesbury attacks this older type of enthusiasm and at the -same time prepares the way for the new emotional enthusiasm. One cannot -say, however, that any such sharp separation of types appears in the -revival of enthusiasm that begins about the middle of the eighteenth -century, though some of those who were working for this revival felt -the need of discriminating: - - That which concerns us therefore is to see - What Species of Enthusiasts we be-- - -says John Byrom in his poem on Enthusiasm. The different species, -however,--the enthusiasm of the Evangelicals and Wesleyans, the -enthusiasm of those who like Law and his disciple Byrom hearken back -to Boehme, the enthusiasm of Rousseau and the sentimentalists, tend to -run together. To “let one’s feelings run in soft luxurious flow,”[181] -is, as Newman says, at the opposite pole from spirituality. Yet much of -this mere emotional facility appears alongside of genuinely religious -elements in the enthusiasm of the Methodist. One may get a notion of -the jumble to which I refer by reading a book like Henry Brooke’s -“Fool of Quality.” Brooke is at one and the same time a disciple of -Boehme and Rousseau while being more or less affiliated with the -Methodistic movement. The book indeed was revised and abridged by -John Wesley himself and in this form had a wide circulation among his -followers.[182] - -The enthusiasm that has marked the modern movement has plainly not been -sufficiently critical. Perhaps the first discovery that any one will -make who wishes to be at once critical and enthusiastic is that in a -genuinely spiritual enthusiasm the inner light and the inner check -are practically identical. He will find that if he is to rise above -the naturalistic level he must curb constantly his expansive desires -with reference to some centre that is set above the flux. Here let me -repeat is the supreme rôle of the imagination. The man who has ceased -to lean on outer standards can perceive his new standards or centre of -control only through its aid. I have tried to show that to aim at such -a centre is not to be stagnant and stationary but on the contrary to -be at once purposeful and progressive. To assert that the creativeness -of the imagination is incompatible with centrality or, what amounts to -the same thing, with purpose, is to assert that the creativeness of -the imagination is incompatible with reality or at least such reality -as man may attain. Life is at best a series of illusions; the whole -office of philosophy is to keep it from degenerating into a series -of delusions. If we are to keep it from thus degenerating we need to -grasp above all the difference between the eccentric and the concentric -imagination. To look for serious guidance to an imagination that owes -allegiance to nothing above itself, is to run the risk of taking some -cloud bank for terra firma. The eccentric imagination may give access -to the “infinite,” but it is an infinite empty of content and therefore -an infinite not of peace but of restlessness. Can any one maintain -seriously that there is aught in common between the “striving for -endlessness” of the German romanticists and the supreme and perfect -Centre that Dante glimpses at the end of the “Divine Comedy” and in the -presence of which he becomes dumb? - -We are told to follow the gleam, but the counsel is somewhat ambiguous. -The gleam that one follows may be that which is associated with the -concentric imagination and which gives steadiness and informing -purpose, or it may be the romantic will o’ the wisp. One may, as I -have said, in recreative moments allow one’s imagination to wander -without control, but to take these wanderings seriously is to engage -in a sort of endless pilgrimage in the void. The romanticist is -constantly yielding to the “spell” of this or the “lure” of that, or -the “call” of some other thing. But when the wonder and strangeness -that he is chasing are overtaken, they at once cease to be wondrous -and strange, while the gleam is already dancing over some other object -on the distant horizon. For nothing is in itself romantic, it is only -imagining that makes it so. Romanticism is the pursuit of the element -of illusion in things for its own sake; it is in short the cherishing -of glamour. The word glamour introduced into literary usage from -popular Scotch usage by Walter Scott itself illustrates this tendency. -Traced etymologically, it turns out to be the same word as grammar. In -an illiterate age to know how to write at all was a weird and magical -accomplishment,[183] but in an educated age, nothing is so drearily -unromantic, so lacking in glamour as grammar. - -The final question that arises in connection with this subject is -whether one may quell the mere restlessness of one’s spirit and impose -upon it an ethical purpose. “The man who has no definite end is lost,” -says Montaigne. The upshot of the romantic supposition that purpose is -incompatible with the freedom of the imagination is a philosophy like -that of Nietzsche. He can conceive of nothing beyond whirling forever -on the wheel of change (“the eternal recurrence”) without any goal or -firm refuge that is set above the flux. He could not help doubting -at times whether happiness was to be found after all in mere endless, -purposeless mutation. - - Have _I_ still a goal? A haven towards which _my_ sail is set? - A good wind? Ah, he only who knoweth _whither_ he saileth, - knoweth what wind is good, and a fair wind for him. - - What still remaineth to me? A heart weary and flippant; an - unstable will; fluttering wings; a broken backbone. - - … - - _Where_ is _my_ home? For it do I ask and seek, and have - sought, but have not found it. O eternal everywhere, O eternal - nowhere, O eternal--in vain.[184] - -To allow one’s self to revolve passively on the wheel of change -(_samsāra_) seemed to the Oriental sage the acme of evil. An old Hindu -writer compares the man who does not impose a firm purpose upon the -manifold solicitations of sense to a charioteer who fails to rein -in his restless steeds[185]--a comparison suggested independently -to Ricarda Huch by the lives of the German romanticists. In the -absence of central control, the parts of the self tend to pull each -in a different way. It is not surprising that in so centrifugal a -movement, at least on the human and spiritual level, one should find -so many instances of disintegrated and multiple personality. The -fascination that the phenomenon of the double (_Doppelgängerei_) had -for Hoffmann and other German romanticists is well known.[186] It may -well be that some such disintegration of the self takes place under -extreme emotional stress.[187] We should not fail to note here the -usual coöperation between the emotional and the scientific naturalist. -Like the romanticist, the scientific psychologist is more interested -in the abnormal than in the normal. According to the Freudians, the -personality that has become incapable of any conscious aim is not left -entirely rudderless. The guidance that it is unable to give itself is -supplied to it by some “wish,” usually obscene, from the sub-conscious -realm of dreams. The Freudian then proceeds to develop what may be true -of the hysterical degenerate into a complete view of life. - -Man is in danger of being deprived of every last scrap and vestige of -his humanity by this working together of romanticism and science. For -man becomes human only in so far as he exercises moral choice. He must -also enter upon the pathway of ethical purpose if he is to achieve -happiness. “Moods,” says Novalis, “undefined emotions, not defined -emotions and feelings, give happiness.” The experience of life shows -so plainly that this is not so that the romanticist is tempted to -seek shelter once more from his mere vagrancy of spirit in the outer -discipline he has abandoned. “To such unsettled ones as thou, seemeth -at last even a prisoner blessed. Didst thou ever see how captured -criminals sleep? They sleep quietly, they enjoy their new security. … -Beware in the end lest a narrow faith capture thee, a hard rigorous -delusion! For now everything that is narrow and fixed seduceth and -tempteth thee.”[188] - -Various reasons have been given for romantic conversions to -Catholicism--for example, the desire for confession (though the -Catholic does not, like the Rousseauist, confess himself from the -housetops), the æsthetic appeal of Catholic rites and ceremonies, etc. -The sentence of Nietzsche puts us on the track of still another reason. -The affinity of certain romantic converts for the Church is that of the -jelly-fish for the rock. It is appropriate that Friedrich Schlegel, -the great apostle of irony, should after a career as a heaven-storming -Titan end by submitting to this most rigid of all forms of outer -authority. - -For it should now be possible to return after our digression on paradox -and the idea of the infinite and the perils of aimlessness, to romantic -irony with a truer understanding of its significance. Like so much -else in this movement it is an attempt to give to a grave psychic -weakness the prestige of strength--unless indeed one conceives the -superior personality to be the one that lacks a centre and principle of -control. Man it has usually been held should think lightly of himself -but should have some conviction for which he is ready to die. The -romantic ironist, on the other hand, is often morbidly sensitive about -himself, but is ready to mock at his own convictions. Rousseau was no -romantic ironist, but the root of self-parody is found nevertheless -in his saying that his heart and his head did not seem to belong to -the same individual. Everything of course is a matter of degree. What -poor mortal can say that he is perfectly at one with himself? Friedrich -Schlegel is not entirely wrong when he discovers elements of irony -based on an opposition between the head and the heart in writers like -Ariosto and Cervantes, who love the very mediæval tales that they are -treating in a spirit of mockery. Yet the laughter of Cervantes is not -gypsy laughter. He is one of those who next to Shakespeare deserve the -praise of having dwelt close to the centre of human nature and so can -in only a minor degree be ranked with the romantic ironists. - -In the extreme type of romantic ironist not only are intellect and -emotion at loggerheads but action often belies both: he thinks one -thing and feels another and does still a third. The most ironical -contrast of all is that between the romantic “ideal” and the actual -event. The whole of romantic morality is from this point of view, as -I have tried to show, a monstrous series of ironies. The pacifist, -for example, has been disillusioned so often that he should by this -time be able to qualify as a romantic ironist, to look, that is, with -a certain aloofness on his own dream. The crumbling of the ideal is -often so complete indeed when put to the test that irony is at times, -we may suppose, a merciful alternative to madness. When disillusion -overtakes the uncritical enthusiast, when he finds that he has taken -some cloud bank for terra firma, he continues to cling to his dream, -but at the same time wishes to show that he is no longer the dupe of -it; and so “hot baths of sentiment,” as Jean Paul says of his novels, -“are followed by cold douches of irony.” The true German master of -the genre is, however, Heine. Every one knows with what coldness his -head came to survey the enthusiasms of his heart, whether in love or -politics. One may again measure the havoc that life had wrought with -Renan’s ideals if one compares the tone of his youthful “Future of -Science” with the irony of his later writings. He compliments Jesus by -ascribing to him an ironical detachment similar to his own. Jesus, he -says, has that mark of the superior nature--the power to rise above -his own dream and to smile down upon it. Anatole France, who is even -more completely detached from his own dreams than his master Renan, -sums up the romantic emancipation of imagination and sensibility from -any definite centre when he says that life should have as its supreme -witnesses irony and pity. - -Irony is on the negative side, it should be remembered, a way of -affirming one’s escape from traditional and conventional control, of -showing the supremacy of mood over decorum. “There are poems old and -new which throughout breathe the divine breath of irony. … Within lives -the poet’s mood that surveys all, rising infinitely above everything -finite, even above his own art, virtue or genius.”[189] Decorum is for -the classicist the grand masterpiece to observe because it is only -thus he can show that he has a genuine centre set above his own ego; -it is only by the allegiance of his imagination to this centre that -he can give the illusion of a higher reality. The romantic ironist -shatters the illusion wantonly. It is as though he would inflict upon -the reader the disillusion from which he has himself suffered. By his -swift passage from one mood to another (_Stimmungsbrechung_) he shows -that he is subject to no centre. The effect is often that of a sudden -breaking of the spell of poetry by an intrusion of the poet’s ego. Some -of the best examples are found in that masterpiece of romantic irony, -“Don Juan.”[190] - -Closely allied to the irony of emotional disillusion is a certain type -of misanthropy. You form an ideal of man that is only an Arcadian dream -and then shrink back from man when you find that he does not correspond -to your ideal. I have said that the romantic lover does not love a -real person but only a projection of his mood. This substitution of -illusion for reality often appears in the relations of the romanticist -with other persons. Shelley, for example, begins by seeing in Elizabeth -Hitchener an angel of light and then discovers that she is instead a -“brown demon.” He did not at any time see the real Elizabeth Hitchener. -She merely reflects back to him two of his own moods. The tender -misanthropy of the Rousseauist is at the opposite pole from that of a -Swift, which is the misanthropy of naked intellect. Instead of seeing -human nature through an Arcadian haze he saw it without any illusion at -all. His irony is like that of Socrates, the irony of intellect. Its -bitterness and cruelty arise from the fact that his intellect does not, -like the intellect of Socrates, have the support of insight. Pascal -would have said that Swift saw man’s misery without at the same time -seeing his grandeur. For man’s grandeur is due to his infinitude and -this infinitude cannot be perceived directly, but only through a veil -of illusion; only, that is, through a right use of the imagination. -Literary distinctions of this kind must of course be used cautiously. -Byron’s irony is prevailingly sentimental, but along with this romantic -element he has much irony and satire that Swift would have understood -perfectly. - -The misanthropist of the Rousseauistic or Byronic type has a resource -that was denied to Swift. Having failed to find companionship among men -he can flee to nature. Rousseau relates how when he had taken refuge on -St. Peter’s Island he “exclaimed at times with deep emotion: Oh nature, -oh my mother, here I am under your protection alone. Here is no adroit -and rascally man to interpose between you and me.”[191] Few aspects of -romanticism are more important than this attempt to find companionship -and consolation in nature. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -ROMANTICISM AND NATURE - - -One of the most disquieting features of the modern movement is -the vagueness and ambiguity of its use of the word nature and the -innumerable sophistries that have resulted. One can sympathize at -times with Sir Leslie Stephen’s wish that the word might be suppressed -entirely. This looseness of definition may be said to begin with -the very rise of naturalism in the Renaissance, and indeed to go -back to the naturalists of Greek and Roman antiquity.[192] Even -writers like Rabelais and Molière are not free from the suspicion -of juggling dangerously on occasion with the different meanings of -the word nature. But the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were -not merely naturalistic, they were also humanistic, and what they -usually meant by nature, as I have pointed out, was the conception -of normal, representative human nature that they had worked out with -the aid of the ancients. There is undeniably an element of narrowness -and artificiality in this conception of nature, and a resulting -unfriendliness, as appears in Pope’s definition of wit, towards -originality and invention. In his “Art of Poetry” Boileau says, “Let -nature be your sole study.” What he means by nature appears a few lines -later: “Study the court and become familiar with the town.” To this -somewhat conventionalized human nature the original genius opposed, -as we have seen, the cult of primitive nature. A whole revolution is -implied in Byron’s line: - - I love not man the less, but nature more. - -Any study of this topic must evidently turn on the question how far at -different times and by different schools of thought the realm of man -and the realm of nature (as Byron uses the word) have been separated -and in what way, and also how far they have been run together and in -what way. For there may be different ways of running together man -and nature. Ruskin’s phrase the “pathetic fallacy” is unsatisfactory -because it fails to recognize this fact. The man who is guilty of the -pathetic fallacy sees in nature emotions that are not really there but -only in himself. Extreme examples of this confusion abound in Ruskin’s -own writings. Now the ancients also ran man and nature together, but in -an entirely different way. The Greek we are told never saw the oak tree -without at the same time seeing the dryad. There is in this and similar -associations a sort of overflow of the human realm upon the forms of -outer nature whereas the Rousseauist instead of bestowing imaginatively -upon the oak tree a conscious life and an image akin to his own and -so lifting it up to his level, would, if he could, become an oak tree -and so enjoy its unconscious and vegetative felicity. The Greek, one -may say, humanized nature; the Rousseauist naturalizes man. Rousseau’s -great discovery was revery; and revery is just this imaginative melting -of man into outer nature. If the ancients failed to develop in a marked -degree this art of revery, it was not because they lacked naturalists. -Both Stoics and Epicureans, the two main varieties of naturalists -with which classical antiquity was familiar, inclined to affirm the -ultimate identity of the human and the natural order. But both Stoics -and Epicureans would have found it hard to understand the indifference -to the intellect and its activities that Rousseauistic revery implies. -The Stoics to be sure employed the intellect on an impossible and -disheartening task--that of founding on the natural order virtues that -the natural order does not give. The Epicureans remind one rather in -much of their intellectual activity of the modern man of science. But -the Epicurean was less prone than the man of science to look on man -as the mere passive creature of environment. The views of the man of -science about the springs of conduct often seem to coincide rather -closely with those of Rousseau about “sensitive morality.” Geoffroy -Saint-Hilaire says that when reclining on the banks of the Nile he felt -awakening within himself the instincts of the crocodile. The point of -view is Rousseauistic perhaps rather than genuinely scientific. An -Epicurus or a Lucretius would, we are probably safe in assuming, have -been disquieted by any such surrender to the subrational, by any such -encroachment of the powers of the unconscious upon conscious control. - -It is hard as a matter of fact to find in the ancients anything -resembling Rousseauistic revery, even when they yield to the pastoral -mood. Nature interests them as a rule less for its own sake than as -a background for human action; and when they are concerned primarily -with nature, it is a nature that has been acted upon by man. They -have a positive shrinking from wild and uncultivated nature. “The -green pastures and golden slopes of England,” says Lowell, “are -sweeter both to the outward and to the inward eye that the hand of man -has immemorially cared for and caressed them.” This is an attitude -towards nature that an ancient would have understood perfectly. One -may indeed call it the Virgilian attitude from the ancient who has -perhaps expressed it most happily. The man who lives in the grand -manner may indeed wish to impose on nature some of the fine proportion -and symmetry of which he is conscious in himself and he may then from -our modern point of view carry the humanizing of nature too far. “Let -us sing of woods,” says Virgil, “but let the woods be worthy of a -consul.” This line has sometimes been taken to be a prophecy of the -Park of Versailles. We may sympathize up to a certain point with the -desire to introduce a human symmetry into nature (such as appears, for -instance, in the Italian garden), but the peril is even greater here -than elsewhere of confounding the requirements of a real with those of -an artificial decorum. I have already mentioned the neo-classicist who -complained that the stars in heaven were not arranged in sufficiently -symmetrical patterns. - -What has been said should make clear that though both humanist and -Rousseauist associate man with nature it is in very different ways, -and that there is therefore an ambiguity in the expression “pathetic -fallacy.” It remains to show that men may not only associate themselves -with nature in different ways but that they may likewise differ in -their ways of asserting man’s separateness from nature. The chief -distinction to be made here is that between the humanist and the -supernaturalist. Some sense of the gap between man and the “outworld” -is almost inevitable and forces itself at times even upon those most -naturalistically inclined: - - Nor will I praise a cloud however bright, - Disparaging Man’s gifts and proper food-- - Grove, isle, with every shape of sky-built dome, - Though clad in colors beautiful and pure, - Find in the heart of man no natural home.[193] - -The Wordsworth who speaks here is scarcely the Wordsworth of Tintern -Abbey or the Wordsworth whose “daily teachers had been woods and -rills.” He reminds us rather of Socrates who gave as his reason for -going so rarely into the country, delightful as he found it when once -there, that he did not learn from woods and rills but from the “men -in the cities.” This sense of the separateness of the human and the -natural realm may be carried much further--to a point where an ascetic -distrust of nature begins to appear. Something of this ascetic distrust -is seen for example in the following lines from Cardinal Newman: - - There strayed awhile amid the woods of Dart - One who could love them, but who durst not love; - A vow had bound him ne’er to give his heart - To streamlet bright or soft secluded grove.[194] - -The origins of this latter attitude towards nature are to be sought in -mediæval Christianity rather than in classical antiquity. No man who -knows the facts would assert for a moment that the man of the Middle -Ages was incapable of looking on nature with other feelings than -those of ascetic distrust. It is none the less true that the man of -the Middle Ages often saw in nature not merely something alien but a -positive temptation and peril of the spirit. In his attitude towards -nature as in other respects Petrarch is usually accounted the first -modern. He did what no man of the mediæval period is supposed to have -done before him, or indeed what scarcely any man of classical antiquity -did: he ascended a mountain out of sheer curiosity and simply to enjoy -the prospect. But those who tell of his ascent of Mt. Ventoux sometimes -forget to add that the passage of Saint Augustine[195] that occurred -to him at the top reflects the distrust of the more austere Christian -towards the whole natural order. Petrarch is at once more ascetic and -more romantic in his attitude towards nature than the Greek or Roman. - -Traces of Petrarch’s taste for solitary and even for wild nature are -to be found throughout the Renaissance and the seventeenth century. -But the recoil from supernaturalism that took place at this time led -rather, as I have remarked, to a revival of the Græco-Roman humanism -with something more of artifice and convention, and to an even more -marked preference[196] of the town to the country. An age that aims -first of all at urbanity must necessarily be more urban than rural in -its predilections. It was a sort of condescension for the neo-classical -humanist to turn from the central model he was imitating to mere -unadorned nature, and even then he felt that he must be careful not -to condescend too far. Even when writing pastorals he was warned by -Scaliger to avoid details that are too redolent of the real country; -he should indulge at most in an “urbane rusticity.” Wild nature the -neo-classicist finds simply repellent. Mountains he looks upon as -“earth’s dishonor and encumbering load.” The Alps were regarded as -the place where Nature swept up the rubbish of the earth to clear -the plains of Lombardy. “At last,” says a German traveller of the -seventeenth century, “we left the horrible and wearisome mountains and -the beautiful flat landscape was joyfully welcomed.” The taste for -mountain scenery is associated no doubt to some extent, as has been -suggested, with the increasing ease and comfort of travel that has come -with the progress of the utilitarian movement. It is scarcely necessary -to point the contrast between the Switzerland of which Evelyn tells in -his diary[197] and the Switzerland in which one may go by funicular to -the top of the Jungfrau. - -Those who in the eighteenth century began to feel the need of less -trimness in nature and human nature were not it is true entirely -without neo-classic predecessors. They turned at times to painting--as -the very word picturesque testifies--for the encouragement they failed -to find in literature. A landscape was picturesque when it seemed -like a picture[198] and it might be not merely irregular but savage -if it were to seem like some of the pictures of Salvator Rosa. This -association of even wildness with art is very characteristic of -eighteenth-century sentimentalism. It is a particular case of that -curious blending in this period of the old principle of the imitation -of models with the new principle of spontaneity. There was a moment -when a man needed to show a certain taste for wildness if he was to be -conventionally correct. “The fops,” says Taine, describing Rousseau’s -influence on the drawing-rooms, “dreamt between two madrigals of the -happiness of sleeping naked in the virgin forest.” The prince in -Goethe’s “Triumph of Sensibility” has carried with him on his travels -canvas screens so painted that when placed in position they give him -the illusion of being in the midst of a wild landscape. This taste for -artificial wildness can however best be studied in connection with the -increasing vogue in the eighteenth century of the English garden as -compared either with the Italian garden or the French garden in the -style of Le Nôtre.[199] As a relief from the neo-classical symmetry, -nature was broken up, often at great expense, into irregular and -unexpected aspects. Some of the English gardens in France and Germany -were imitated directly from Rousseau’s famous description of this -method of dealing with the landscape in the “Nouvelle Héloïse.”[200] -Artificial ruins were often placed in the English garden as a further -aid to those who wished to wander imaginatively from the beaten path, -and also as a provocative of the melancholy that was already held to -be distinguished. Towards the end of the century this cult of ruins -was widespread. The veritable obsession with ruins that one finds in -Chateaubriand is not unrelated to this sentimental fashion, though -it arises even more perhaps from the real ruins that had been so -plentifully supplied by the Revolution. - -Rousseau himself, it should hardly be necessary to say, stands for far -more than an artificial wildness. Instead of imposing decorum on nature -like the neo-classicist, he preached constantly the elimination of -decorum from man. Man should flee from that “false taste for grandeur -which is not made for him” and which “poisons his pleasures,”[201] -to nature. Now “it is on the summits of mountains, in the depths of -forests, on deserted islands that nature reveals her most potent -charms.”[202] The man of feeling finds the savage and deserted nook -filled with beauties that seem horrible to the mere worldling.[203] -Rousseau indeed did not crave the ultimate degree of wildness even -in the Alps. He did not get beyond what one may term the middle zone -of Alpine scenery--scenery that may be found around the shores of -Lake Leman. He was inclined to find the most appropriate setting for -the earthly paradise in the neighborhood of Vevey. Moreover, others -about the same time and more or less independently of his influence -were opposing an even more primitive nature to the artificialities of -civilization. The mountains of “Ossian” are, as has been said, mere -blurs, yet the new delight in mountains is due in no small measure -throughout Europe to the Ossianic influence. - -The instinct for getting away from the beaten track, for exploration -and discovery, has of course been highly developed at other epochs, -notably at the Renaissance. Much of the romantic interest in the wild -and waste places of the earth did not go much beyond what might have -been felt in Elizabethan England. Many of the Rousseauists, Wordsworth -and Chateaubriand for example, not only read eagerly the older books -of travel but often the same books. The fascination of penetrating to -regions “where foot of man hath ne’er or rarely been,” is perennial. -It was my privilege a few years ago to listen to Sir Ernest Shackleton -speak of his expedition across the Antarctic continent and of the -thrill that he and the members of his party felt when they saw rising -before them day after day mountain peaks that no human eye had ever -gazed upon. The emotion was no doubt very similar to that of “stout -Cortez” when he first “stared at the Pacific.” Chateaubriand must -have looked forward to similar emotions when he planned his trip to -North America in search of the North West Passage. But the passion for -actual exploration which is a form of the romanticism of action is very -subordinate in the case of Chateaubriand to emotional romanticism. He -went into the wilderness first of all not to make actual discoveries -but to affirm his freedom from conventional restraint, and at the same -time to practice the new art of revery. His sentiments on getting -into what was then the virgin forest to the west of Albany were very -different we may assume from those of the early pioneers of America. -“When,” he says, “after passing the Mohawk I entered woods which -had never felt the axe, I was seized by a sort of intoxication of -independence: I went from tree to tree, to right and left, saying to -myself, ‘Here are no more roads or cities or monarchy or republic -or presidents or kings or men.’ And in order to find out if I was -restored to my original rights I did various wilful things that made -my guide furious. In his heart he believed me mad.” The disillusion -that followed is also one that the early pioneers would have had some -difficulty in understanding. For he goes on to relate that while he -was thus rejoicing in his escape from conventional life to pure nature -he suddenly bumped up against a shed, and under the shed he saw his -first savages--a score of them both men and women. A little Frenchman -named M. Violet, “bepowdered and befrizzled, with an apple-green coat, -drugget waistcoat and muslin frill and cuffs, was scraping on a pocket -fiddle” and teaching the Indians to dance to the tune of Madelon -Friquet. M. Violet, it seemed, had remained behind on the departure -from New York of Rochambeau’s forces at the time of the American -Revolution, and had set up as dancing-master among the savages. He -was very proud of the nimbleness of his pupils and always referred to -them as “ces messieurs sauvages et ces dames sauvagesses.” “Was it not -a crushing circumstance for a disciple of Rousseau,” Chateaubriand -concludes, “this introduction to savage life by a ball that the -ex-scullion of General Rochambeau was giving to Iroquois? I felt very -much like laughing, but I was at the same time cruelly humiliated.” - -In America, as elsewhere, Chateaubriand’s chief concern is not -with any outer fact or activity, but with his own emotions and the -enhancement of these emotions by his imagination. In him as in many -other romanticists the different elements of Rousseauism--Arcadian -longing, the pursuit of the dream woman, the aspiration towards the -“infinite” (often identified with God)--appear at times more or less -separately and then again almost inextricably blended with one another -and with the cult of nature. It may be well to consider more in detail -these various elements of Rousseauism and their relation to nature in -about the order I have mentioned. The association of Arcadian longing -with nature is in part an outcome of the conflict between the ideal and -the real. The romantic idealist finds that men do not understand him: -his “vision” is mocked and his “genius” is unrecognized. The result -is the type of sentimental misanthropy of which I spoke at the end of -the last chapter. He feels, as Lamartine says, that there is nothing -in common between the world and him. Lamartine adds, however, “But -nature is there who invites you and loves you.” You will find in her -the comprehension and companionship that you have failed to find in -society. And nature will seem a perfect companion to the Rousseauist -in direct proportion as she is uncontaminated by the presence of man. -Wordsworth has described the misanthropy that supervened in many people -on the collapse of the revolutionary idealism. He himself overcame -it, though there is more than a suggestion in the manner of his own -retirement into the hills of a man who retreats into an Arcadian dream -from actual defeat. The suggestion of defeat is much stronger in -Ruskin’s similar retirement. Ruskin doubtless felt in later life, like -Rousseau, that if he had failed to get on with men “it was less his -fault than theirs.”[204] Perhaps emotional misanthropy and the worship -of wild nature are nowhere more fully combined than in Byron. He -gives magnificent expression to the most untenable of paradoxes--that -one escapes from solitude by eschewing human haunts in favor of some -wilderness.[205] In these haunts, he says, he became like a “falcon -with clipped wing,” but found in nature the kindest of mothers. - - Oh! she is fairest in her features wild, - Where nothing polished dare pollute her path: - To me by day or night she ever smiled - Though I have marked her when none other hath - And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wrath.[206] - -He not only finds companionship in nature but at the same time partakes -of her infinitude--an infinitude, one should note, of feeling: - - I live not in myself, but I become - Portion of that around me; and to me - High mountains are a feeling, but the hum - Of human cities torture.[207] - -In his less misanthropic moods the Rousseauist sees in wild nature -not only a refuge from society, but also a suitable setting for his -companionship with the ideal mate, for what the French term _la -solitude à deux_. - - Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place - With one fair Spirit for my minister, - That I might all forget the human race - And, hating no one, love but only her![208] - -The almost innumerable passages in the romantic movement that celebrate -this Arcadian companionship in the wilderness merely continue in a -sense the pastoral mood that must be as old as human nature itself. -But in the past the pastoral mood has been comparatively placid. -It has not been associated in any such degree with misanthropy and -wildness, with nympholeptic longing and the thirst for the infinite. -The scene that Chateaubriand has imagined between Chactas and Atala in -the primeval forest, is surely the stormiest of Arcadias; so stormy -indeed that it would have been unintelligible to Theocritus. It is -not certain that it would have been intelligible to Shakespeare, who -like the other Elizabethans felt at times that he too had been born -in Arcadia. The Arcadian of the past was much less inclined to sink -down to the subrational and to merge his personality in the landscape. -Rousseau describes with a charm that has scarcely been surpassed by -any of his disciples, the reveries in which he thus descends below -the level of his rational self. Time, no longer broken up by the -importunate intellect and its analysis, is then felt by him in its -unbroken flow; the result is a sort of “eternal present that leaves -no sense of emptiness.” Of such a moment of revery Rousseau says, -anticipating Faust, that he “would like it to last forever.” Bergson -in his conception of the _summum bonum_ as a state in which time is -no longer cut up into artificial segments but is perceived in its -continuous stream as a “present that endures,”[209] has done little -more than repeat Rousseau. The sight and sound of water seem to have -been a special aid to revery in Rousseau’s case. His accounts of the -semi-dissolution of his conscious self that he enjoyed while drifting -idly on the Lake of Bienne are justly celebrated. Lamartine’s soul was, -like that of Rousseau, lulled by “the murmur of waters.” Nothing again -is more Rousseauistic than the desire Arnold attributes to Maurice de -Guérin--the desire “to be borne on forever down an enchanted stream.” -That too is why certain passages of Shelley are so near in spirit to -Rousseau--for example, the boat revery in “Prometheus Unbound” in which -an Arcadian nature and the dream companion mingle to the strains of -music in a way that is supremely romantic.[210] - -The association of nature with Arcadian longing and the pursuit of -the dream woman is even less significant than its association with -the idea of the infinite. For as a result of this latter association -the nature cult often assumes the aspect of a religion. The various -associations may indeed as I have said be very much blended or else -may run into one another almost insensibly. No better illustration of -this blending can be found perhaps than in Chateaubriand--especially -in that compendium of Rousseauistic psychology, his “René.” The soul -of René, one learns, was too great to adjust itself to the society of -men. He found that he would have to contract his life if he put himself -on their level. Men, for their part, treated him as a dreamer, and so -he is forced more and more by his increasing disgust for them into -solitude. Now René rests the sense of his superiority over other men -on two things: first, on his superlative capacity to feel grief;[211] -secondly, on his thirst for the infinite. “What is finite,” he says, -“has no value for me.” What is thus pushing him beyond all bounds is -“an unknown good of which the instinct pursues me.” “I began to ask -myself what I desired. I did not know but I thought all of a sudden -that the woods would be delicious to me!” What he found in this quest -for the mystical something that was to fill the abyss of his existence -was the dream woman. “I went down into the valley, I strode upon the -mountain, summoning with all the force of my desire the ideal object -of a future flame; I embraced this object in the winds; I thought -that I heard it in the moanings of the river. All was this phantom of -the imagination--both the stars in heaven and the very principle of -life in the universe.” I have already quoted a very similar passage -and pointed out the equivalent in Shelley. No such close equivalent -could be found in Byron, and Wordsworth, it is scarcely necessary to -say, offers no equivalent at all. If one reads on, however, one finds -passages that are Byronic and others that are Wordsworthian. Paganism, -Chateaubriand complains, by seeing in nature only certain definite -forms--fauns and satyrs and nymphs--had banished from it both God and -the infinite. But Christianity expelled these thronging figures in -turn and restored to the grottoes their silence and to the woods their -revery. The true God thus became visible in his works and bestowed -upon them his own immensity. What Chateaubriand understands by God and -the infinite appears in the following description of the region near -Niagara seen by moonlight. The passage is Byronic as a whole with a -Wordsworthian touch at the end. “The grandeur, the amazing melancholy -of this picture cannot be expressed in human language; the fairest -night of Europe can give no conception of it. In vain in our cultivated -fields does the imagination seek to extend itself. It encounters on -every hand the habitations of men; but in these savage regions the soul -takes delight in plunging into an ocean of forests, in hovering over -the gulf of cataracts, in meditating on the shores of lakes and rivers -and, so to speak, in finding itself alone in the presence of God.” The -relation between wild and solitary nature and the romantic idea of the -infinite is here obvious. It is an aid to the spirit in throwing off -its limitations and so in feeling itself “free.”[212] - -A greater spiritual elevation it is sometimes asserted is found in -Wordsworth’s communings with nature than in those of Rousseau and -Chateaubriand. The difference perhaps is less one of spirit than -of temperament. In its abdication of the intellectual and critical -faculties, in its semi-dissolution of the conscious self, the -revery of Wordsworth does not differ from that of Rousseau[213] and -Chateaubriand, but the erotic element is absent. In the “Genius of -Christianity” Chateaubriand gives a magnificent description of sunset -at sea and turns the whole picture into a proof of God. Elsewhere he -tells us that it was “not God alone that I contemplated on the waters -in the splendor of his works. I saw an unknown woman and the miracle -of her smile. … I should have sold eternity for one of her caresses. -I imagined that she was palpitating behind that veil of the universe -that hid her from my eyes,” etc. Wordsworth was at least consistently -religious in his attitude towards the landscape: he did not see in it -at one moment God, and at another an unknown woman and the miracle of -her smile. At the same time his idea of spirituality is very remote -from the traditional conception. Formerly spirituality was held to be a -process of recollection, of gathering one’s self in, that is, towards -the centre and not of diffusive emotion; so that when a man wished -to pray he retired into his closet, and did not, like a Wordsworth -or a Rousseau, fall into an inarticulate ecstasy before the wonders -of nature. As for the poets of the past, they inclined as a rule to -look on nature as an incentive not to religion but to love. Keble, -following Wordsworth, protests on this ground against Aristophanes, and -Catullus and Horace and Theocritus. He might have lengthened the list -almost indefinitely. Chateaubriand bids us in our devotional moods to -betake ourselves “to the religious forest.” La Fontaine is at least -as near to normal human experience and also at least as poetical when -he warns “fair ones” to “fear the depths of the woods and their vast -silence.”[214] - -No one would question that Wordsworth has passages of great ethical -elevation. But in some of these passages he simply renews the error -of the Stoics who also display at times great ethical elevation; he -ascribes to the natural order virtues that the natural order does not -give. This error persists to some extent even when he is turning away, -as in the “Ode to Duty,” from the moral spontaneity of the Rousseauist. -It is not quite clear that the law of duty in the breast of man is the -same law that preserves “the stars from wrong.” His earlier assertion -that the light of setting suns and the mind of man are identical in -their essence is at best highly speculative, at least as speculative -as the counter assertion of Sir Thomas Browne that “there is surely a -piece of divinity in us; something that was before the elements, and -owes no homage unto the sun.” Furthermore this latter sense of the gap -between man and nature seems to be more fully justified by its fruits -in life and conduct, and this is after all the only test that counts in -the long run. - -One of the reasons why pantheistic revery has been so popular is that -it seems to offer a painless substitute for genuine spiritual effort. -In its extreme exponents, a Rousseau or a Walt Whitman, it amounts to a -sort of ecstatic animality that sets up as a divine illumination. Even -in its milder forms it encourages one to assume a tone of consecration -in speaking of experiences that are æsthetic rather than truly -religious. “’Tis only heaven that’s given away,” sings Lowell; “’Tis -only God may be had for the asking.” God and heaven are accorded by -Lowell with such strange facility because he identifies them with the -luxurious enjoyment of a “day in June.” When pushed to a certain point -the nature cult always tends towards sham spirituality. - - Oh World as God has made it - --All is beauty, - And knowing this is love, and - Love is duty. - -It seems to follow from these verses of Browning, perhaps the most -flaccid spiritually in the English language, that to go out and mix -one’s self up with the landscape is the same as doing one’s duty. As -a method of salvation this is even easier and more æsthetic than that -of the Ancient Mariner, who, it will be remembered, is relieved of the -burden of his transgression by admiring the color of water-snakes! - -The nature cult arose at a time when the traditional religious -symbols were becoming incredible. Instead of working out new and -firm distinctions between good and evil, the Rousseauist seeks to -discredit all precise distinctions whether new or old, in favor of mere -emotional intoxication. The passage to which I have already alluded, -in which Faust breaks down the scruples of Marguerite by proclaiming -the supremacy of feeling, surpasses even the lines I have cited from -Browning as an example of sham spirituality: - - _Marguerite_: - - Dost thou believe in God? - - _Faust_: - - My darling, who dares say, - Yes, I in God believe? - Question or priest or sage, and they - Seem, in the answer you receive, - To mock the questioner. - - _Marguerite_: - - Then thou dost not believe? - - _Faust_: - - Sweet one! my meaning do not misconceive! - Him who dare name - And who proclaim, - Him I believe? - Who that can feel, - His heart can steel - To say: I believe him not? - The All-embracer, - All-sustainer, - Holds and sustains he not - Thee, me, himself? - Lifts not the Heaven its dome above? - Doth not the firm-set earth beneath us lie? - And beaming tenderly with looks of love - Climb not the everlasting stars on high? - Do I not gaze into thine eyes? - Nature’s impenetrable agencies, - Are they not thronging on thy heart and brain, - Viewless, or visible to mortal ken, - Around thee weaving their mysterious chain? - Fill thence thy heart, how large soe’er it be; - And in the feeling when thou utterly art blest, - Then call it what thou wilt-- - Call it Bliss! Heart! Love! God! - I have no name for it! - Feeling is all; - Name is but sound and smoke - Shrouding the glow of heaven.[215] - -The upshot of this enthusiasm that overflows all boundaries and spurns -definition as mere smoke that veils its heavenly glow is the seduction -of a poor peasant girl. Such is the romantic contrast between the -“ideal” and the “real.” - -Those to whom I may seem to be treating the nature cult with -undue severity should remember that I am treating it only in its -pseudo-religious aspect. In its proper place all this refining on -man’s relation to the “outworld” may be legitimate and delightful; -but that place is secondary. My quarrel is only with the æsthete who -assumes an apocalyptic pose and gives forth as a profound philosophy -what is at best only a holiday or week-end view of existence. No -distinction is more important for any one who wishes to maintain a -correct scale of values than that between what is merely recreative and -what ministers to leisure. There are times when we may properly seek -solace and renewal in nature, when we may invite both our souls and our -bodies to loaf. The error is to look on these moments of recreation -and relief from concentration on some definite end as in themselves -the consummation of wisdom. Rousseau indeed assumes that his art of -mixing himself up with the landscape is identical with leisure; like -innumerable disciples he confuses revery with meditation--a confusion -so grave that I shall need to revert to it later. He parodies subtly -what is above the ordinary rational level in terms of what is below it. -He thus brings under suspicion the most necessary of all truths--that -the kingdom of heaven is within us. - -The first place always belongs to action and purpose and not to mere -idling, even if it be like that of the Rousseauist transcendental -idling. The man who makes a deliberate choice and then plans his life -with reference to it is less likely than the aimless man to be swayed -by every impulse and impression. The figures of Raphael according to -Hazlitt have always “a set, determined, voluntary character,” they -“want that wild uncertainty of expression which is connected with the -accidents of nature and the changes of the elements.” And Hazlitt -therefore concludes rightly that Raphael has “nothing romantic about -him.” The distinction is so important that it might be made the -basis for a comparison between the painting of the Renaissance and -some of the important schools of the nineteenth century. Here again -no sensible person would maintain that the advantage is all on one -side. Romanticism gave a great impulse to landscape painting and to -the painting of man in the landscape. Few romantic gains are more -indubitable. One may prefer the best work of the Barbizon school for -example to the contemporary product in French literature. But even here -it must be insisted that painting from which man is absent or in which -he is more or less subordinated to the landscape is not the highest -type of painting. Turner, one of the greatest masters of landscape, -was almost incapable of painting the human figure. Ruskin is therefore -indulging in romantic paradox when he puts Turner in the same class -as Shakespeare. Turner’s vision of life as compared with that of -Shakespeare is not central but peripheral. - -The revolution that has resulted from the triumph of naturalistic over -humanistic tendencies in painting extends down to the minutest details -of technique; it has meant the subordination of design--the imposition, -that is, on one’s material of a firm central purpose--to light and -color; and this in painting corresponds to the literary pursuit of -glamour and illusion for their own sake. It has meant in general a -tendency to sacrifice all the other elements of painting to the capture -of the vivid and immediate impression. And this corresponds to the -readiness of the writer to forego decorum in favor of intensity. The -choice that is involved, including a choice of technique, according -as one is a naturalist or a humanist, is brought out by Mr. Kenyon Cox -in his comparison of two paintings of hermits,[216] one by Titian and -one by John Sargent: the impressionistic and pantheistic hermit of -Sargent is almost entirely merged in the landscape; he is little more -than a pretext for a study of the accidents of light. The conception -of Titian’s St. Jerome in the Desert is perhaps even more humanistic -than religious. The figure of the saint on which everything converges -is not merely robust, it is even a bit robustious. The picture affirms -in its every detail the superior importance of man and his purposes to -his natural environment. So far as their inner life is concerned the -two hermits are plainly moving in opposite directions. An appropriate -motto for Sargent’s hermit would be the following lines that I take -from a French symbolist, but the equivalent of which can be found in -innumerable other Rousseauists: - - _Je voudrais me confondre avec les chases, tordre_ - _Mes bras centre la pierre et les fraîches écorces,_ - _Etre l’arbre, le mur, le pollen et le sel,_ - _Et me dissoudre au fond de l’être universel._ - -This is to push the reciprocity between man and nature to a point -where the landscape is not only a state of the soul but the soul is -a state of the landscape; just as in Shelley’s Ode, Shelley becomes -the West Wind and the West Wind becomes Shelley.[217] The changes in -the romantic soul are appropriately mirrored in the changes of the -seasons. In Tieck’s “Genoveva,” for example, Golo’s love blossoms in -the springtime, the sultry summer impels him to sinful passion, the -autumn brings grief and repentance, and in winter avenging judgment -overtakes the offender and casts him into the grave.[218] Autumn -is perhaps even more than springtime the favorite season of the -Rousseauist. The movement is filled with souls who like the hero of -Poe’s “Ulalume” have reached the October of their sensations. Some -traces of this sympathetic relation between man and nature may indeed -be found in the literature of the past. The appropriateness of the -setting in the “Prometheus Bound” of Æschylus would scarcely seem to -be an accident. The storm in “Lear” may also be instanced. But as I -have already said occidental man did not before Rousseau show much -inclination to mingle with the landscape. The parallelism that Pater -establishes in “Marius the Epicurean” between the moods of the hero and -the shifting aspects of nature is felt as a distinct anachronism. If we -wish to find any early approximations to the subtleties and refinements -of the Rousseauist in his dealings with nature we need to turn to the -Far East--especially to the Taoist movement in China.[219] As a result -of the Taoist influence China had from a very early period poets and -painters for whom the landscape is very plainly a state of the soul. - -Pantheistic revery of the kind I have been describing leads inevitably -to a special type of symbolism. The Rousseauist reads into nature -unutterable love. He sees shining through its finite forms the light of -the infinite. The Germans especially set out to express symbolically -the relationship between the love and infinitude that they saw in -nature and the kindred elements in themselves. Any one who has -attempted to thread his way through the German theories of the symbol -will feel that he has, like Wordsworth’s shepherd, “been in the heart -of many thousand mists.” But in view of the importance of the subject -it is necessary to venture for a moment into this metaphysical murk. -Schelling’s “Nature Philosophy” is perhaps the most ambitious of all -the German attempts to run together symbolically the human spirit and -phenomenal nature. “What we call nature,” says Schelling, “is a poem -that lies hidden in a secret wondrous writing”; if the riddle could be -revealed we should recognize in nature “the Odyssey of the Spirit.” -“There looks out through sensuous objects as through a half-transparent -mist the world of phantasy for which we long.” “All things are only a -garment of the world of spirit.” “To be romantic,” says Uhland, “is -to have an inkling of the infinite in appearances.” “Beauty,” says -Schelling in similar vein, “is a finite rendering of the infinite.” Now -the infinite and the finite can only be thus brought together through -the medium of the symbol. Therefore, as A. W. Schlegel says, “beauty -is a symbolical representation of the infinite. All poetry is an -everlasting symbolizing.” - -This assertion is in an important sense true. Unfortunately there -remains the ambiguity that I have already pointed out in the word -“infinite.” No one would give a high rating to a certain type of -allegory that flourished in neo-classical times as also in a somewhat -different form during the Middle Ages. It is a cold intellectual -contrivance in which the imagination has little part and which -therefore fails to suggest the infinite in any sense. But to -universalize the particular in the classical sense is to give access -imaginatively to the human infinite that is set above nature. Every -successful humanistic creation is more or less symbolical. Othello is -not merely a jealous man; he is also a symbol of jealousy. Some of the -myths of Plato again are imaginative renderings of a supersensuous -realm to which man has no direct access. They are symbolical -representations of an infinite that the romanticist leaves out of -his reckoning. The humanistic and spiritual symbols that abound in -the religion and poetry of the past, are then, it would seem, very -different from the merely æsthetic symbolizing of a Schelling. For -Schelling is one of the chief of those who from Shaftesbury down have -tended to identify beauty and truth and to make both purely æsthetic. -But a symbol that is purely æsthetic, that is in other words purely a -matter of feeling, rests on what is constantly changing not only from -man to man but in the same man. Romantic symbolism, therefore, though -it claims at one moment to be scientific (especially in Germany) and at -another moment to have a religious value, is at bottom the symbolizing -of mood. Both the imagination and the emotion that enter into the -romantic symbol are undisciplined. The results of such a symbolism do -not meet the demand of the genuine man of science for experimental -proof, they do not again satisfy the test of universality imposed by -those who believe in a distinctively human realm that is set above -nature. The nature philosophy of a Schelling leads therefore on the one -hand to sham science and on the other to sham philosophy and religion. - -The genuine man of science has as a matter of fact repudiated the -speculations of Schelling and other romantic physicists as fantastic. -He may also be counted on to look with suspicion on the speculations -of a Bergson who, more perhaps than any living Rousseauist, reminds -one of the German romantic philosophers. One idea has however lingered -in the mind even of the genuine man of science as a result of all this -romantic theorizing--namely that man has access to the infinite only -through nature. Thus Professor Henry Fairfield Osborn said in a recent -address to the students of Columbia University: - - I would not for a moment take advantage of the present - opportunity to discourage the study of human nature and of - the humanities, but for what is called the best opening for - a constructive career give me nature. The ground for my - preference is that human nature is an exhaustible fountain - of research; Homer understood it well; Solomon fathomed - it; Shakespeare divined it, both normal and abnormal; - the modernists have been squeezing out the last drops of - abnormality. Nature, studied since Aristotle’s time, is - still full to the brim; no perceptible falling of its tides - is evident from any point at which it is attacked, from - nebulæ to protoplasm; it is always wholesome, refreshing and - invigorating. Of the two most creative literary artists of our - time, Maeterlinck, jaded with human abnormality, comes back to - the bee and the flowers and the “blue bird,” with a delicious - renewal of youth, while Rostand turns to the barnyard. - -The romanticists acted from the start, following here in the wake of -the pseudo-classicists, on Professor Osborn’s assumption that normal -human nature is something that may be bottled up once for all and put -by on a shelf, though they would have been pained to learn from him -that even abnormal human nature may also be bottled up and put by in -the same fashion. Sophistries of this kind should perhaps be pardoned -in the man of science when so many men who are supposed to stand for -letters have shown him the way. Great literature is an imaginative and -symbolical interpretation of an infinite that is accessible only to -those who possess in some degree the same type of imagination. A writer -like Maeterlinck, whom Professor Osborn takes to be representative of -literature in general, is merely a late exponent of a movement that -from the start turned away from this human infinite towards pantheistic -revery. - -The imagination is, as Coleridge says, the great unifying power; it -draws together things that are apparently remote. But its analogies to -be of value should surely have validity apart from the mere shifting -mood of the man who perceives them. Otherwise he simply wrests some -outer object from the chain of cause and effect of which it is actually -a part, and incorporates it arbitrarily into his own private dream. -Wordsworth is not sparing of homely detail in his account of his -leech-gatherer; but at a given moment in this poem the leech-gatherer -undergoes a strange transformation; he loses all verisimilitude as a -leech-gatherer and becomes a romantic symbol, a mere projection, that -is, of the poet’s own broodings. To push this symbolizing of mood -beyond a certain point is incipient hallucination. We are told that -when the asylum at Charenton was shelled in the Franco-Prussian War -of 1870, the lunatics saw reflected in the bursting bombs, each in -a different way, his own madness. One took the bombs to be a link in -the plot of his enemies against him, etc. It is hard to consider the -symbolizing and visions of the extreme romanticist, such as those of -William Blake, without thinking at times of Charenton. - -What I have said of the romantic symbol is true in some degree of -the romantic metaphor, for the symbol and even the myth are often -only a developed metaphor. The first part of the romantic metaphor, -the image or impression that has been received from the outer world, -is often admirably fresh and vivid.[220] But the second part of the -metaphor when the analogy involved is that between some fact of outer -perception and the inner life of man is often vague and misty; for the -inner life in which the romanticist takes interest is not the life -he possesses in common with other men but what is most unique in his -own emotions--his mood in short. That is why the metaphor and still -more the symbol in so far as they are romantic are always in danger of -becoming unintelligible, since it is not easy for one man to enter into -another’s mood. Men accord a ready welcome to metaphors and symbols -that instead of expressing something more or less individual have a -real relevancy to their common nature. Tribulation, for example, means -literally the beating out of grain on the threshing floor. The man -who first saw the analogy between this process and certain spiritual -experiences established a legitimate link between nature and human -nature, between sense and the supersensuous. Language is filled with -words and expressions of this kind which have become so current that -their metaphorical and symbolical character has been forgotten and -which have at the same time ceased to be vivid and concrete and become -abstract. - -The primitivistic fallacies of the German romanticists in their -dealings with the symbol and metaphor appear in various forms in -French romanticism and even more markedly in its continuation known -as the symbolistic movement. What is exasperating in many of the -poets of this school is that they combine the pretence to a vast -illumination with the utmost degree of spiritual and intellectual -emptiness and vagueness. Like the early German romanticists they mix -up flesh and spirit in nympholeptic longing and break down and blur -all the boundaries of being in the name of the infinite. Of this inner -formlessness and anarchy the chaos of the _vers libre_ (in which they -were also anticipated by the Germans) is only an outer symptom.[221] - -If the Rousseauistic primitivist recognizes the futility of his -symbolizing, and consents to become a passive register of outer -perception, if for example he proclaims himself an imagist, he at least -has the merit of frankness, but in that case he advertises by the very -name he has assumed the bankruptcy of all that is most worth while in -poetry. - -But to return to romanticism and nature. It should be plain from what -has already been said that the romanticist tends to make of nature the -mere plaything of his mood. When Werther’s mood is cheerful, nature -smiles at him benignly. When his mood darkens she becomes for him “a -devouring monster.” When it grows evident to the romanticist that -nature does not alter with his alteration, he chides her at times for -her impassibility; or again he seeks to be impassible like her, even if -he can be so only at the expense of his humanity. This latter attitude -is closely connected with the dehumanizing of man by science that is -reflected in a whole literature during the last half of the nineteenth -century--for instance, in so-called “impassive” writers like Flaubert -and Leconte de Lisle. - -The causal sequences that had been observed in the physical realm -were developed more and more during this period with the aid of pure -mathematics and the mathematical reason (_esprit de géométrie_) into an -all-embracing system. For the earlier romanticists nature had at least -been a living presence whether benign or sinister. For the mathematical -determinist she tends to become a soulless, pitiless mechanism against -which man is helpless.[222] This conception of nature is so important -that I shall need to revert to it in my treatment of melancholy. - -The man who has accepted the universe of the mechanist or determinist -is not always gloomy. But men in general felt the need of some relief -from the deterministic obsession. Hence the success of the philosophy -of Bergson and similar philosophies. The glorification of impulse -(_élan vital_) that Bergson opposes to the mechanizing of life is in -its main aspects, as I have already indicated, simply a return to -the spontaneity of Rousseau. His plan of escape from deterministic -science is at bottom very much like Rousseau’s plan of escape from -the undue rationalism of the Enlightenment. As a result of these -eighteenth-century influences, nature had, according to Carlyle, become -a mere engine, a system of cogs and pulleys. He therefore hails Novalis -as an “anti-mechanist,” a “deep man,” because of the way of deliverance -that he teaches from this nightmare. “I owe him somewhat.” What Carlyle -owed to Novalis many moderns have owed to Bergson, but it is not yet -clear that either Novalis or Bergson are “deep men.” - -The mechanistic view of nature, whether held pessimistically or -optimistically, involving as it does factors that are infinite -and therefore beyond calculation, cannot furnish proofs that will -satisfy the true positivist: he is inclined to dismiss it as a mere -phantasmagoria of the intellect. The Rousseauistic view of nature, on -the other hand, whether held optimistically or pessimistically, is -even less capable of satisfying the standards of the positivist and -must be dismissed as a mere phantasmagoria of the emotions. The fact -is that we do not know and can never know what nature is in herself. -The mysterious mother has shrouded herself from us in an impenetrable -veil of illusion. But though we cannot know nature absolutely we can -pick up a practical and piecemeal knowledge of nature not by dreaming -but by doing. The man of action can within certain limits have his way -with nature. Now the men who have acted during the past century have -been the men of science and the utilitarians who have been turning -to account the discoveries of science. The utilitarians have indeed -derived such potent aid from science that they have been able to stamp -their efforts on the very face of the landscape. The romanticists have -not ceased to protest against this scientific utilizing of nature as -a profanation. But inasmuch as these protests have come from men who -have stood not for work but for revery they have for the most part -been futile. This is not the least of the ironic contrasts that abound -in this movement between the ideal and the real. No age ever grew so -ecstatic over natural beauty as the nineteenth century, at the same -time no age ever did so much to deface nature. No age ever so exalted -the country over the town, and no age ever witnessed such a crowding -into urban centres. - -A curious study might be made of this ironic contrast as it appears -in the early romantic crusade against railways. One of the romantic -grievances against the railway is that it does not encourage -vagabondage: it has a definite goal and gets to it so far as possible -in a straight line. Yet in spite of Wordsworth’s protesting sonnet the -Windermere railway was built. Ruskin’s wrath at railways was equally -vain. In general, sentiment is not of much avail when pitted against -industrial advance. The papers announced recently that one of the -loveliest cascades in the California Sierras had suddenly disappeared -as a result of the diversion of its water to a neighboring power-plant. -The same fate is overtaking Niagara itself. It is perhaps symbolic -that a quarry has made a hideous gash in the hillside on the shores of -Rydal Mere right opposite Wordsworth’s house. - -If the man of science and the utilitarian do not learn what nature -is in herself they learn at least to adjust themselves to forces -outside themselves. The Rousseauist, on the other hand, does not in -his “communion” with nature adjust himself to anything. He is simply -communing with his own mood. Rousseau chose appropriately as title for -the comedy that was his first literary effort “Narcissus or the Lover -of Himself.” The nature over which the Rousseauist is bent in such rapt -contemplation plays the part of the pool in the legend of Narcissus. It -renders back to him his own image. He sees in nature what he himself -has put there. The Rousseauist transfuses himself into nature in much -the same way that Pygmalion transfuses himself into his statue. Nature -is dead, as Rousseau says, unless animated by the fires of love. “Make -no mistake,” says M. Masson, “the nature that Jean-Jacques worships -is only a projection of Jean-Jacques. He has poured himself forth -so complacently upon it that he can always find himself and cherish -himself in it.” And M. Masson goes on and quotes from a curious and -little-known fragment of Rousseau: “Beloved solitude,” Rousseau sighs, -“beloved solitude, where I still pass with pleasure the remains of -a life given over to suffering. Forest with stunted trees, marshes -without water, broom, reeds, melancholy heather, inanimate objects, -you who can neither speak to me nor hear me, what secret charm brings -me back constantly into your midst? Unfeeling and dead things, this -charm is not in you; it could not be there. It is in my own heart which -wishes to refer back everything to itself.”[223] Coleridge plainly only -continues Rousseau when he writes: - - O Lady! we receive but what we give, - And in our life alone does nature live:[224] - Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! - And would we aught behold, of higher worth, - Than that inanimate cold world allow’d - To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, - Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth - A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud - Enveloping the Earth. - -The fair luminous cloud is no other than the Arcadian imagination. “The -light that never was on sea or land, the consecration and the poet’s -dream” of which Wordsworth speaks, is likewise as appears very plainly -from the context,[225] Arcadian. He should once, Wordsworth writes, -have wished to see Peele Castle bathed in the Arcadian light, but now -that he has escaped by sympathy for his fellow-men from the Arcadian -aloofness, he is willing that it should be painted in storm. Mere -storminess, one should recollect, is not in itself an assurance that -one has turned from the romantic dream to reality. One finds in this -movement, if nowhere else, as I remarked apropos of Chateaubriand, the -stormy Arcadia. - -It is not through the Arcadian imagination that one moves towards -reality. This does not much matter if what one seeks in a “return to -nature” is merely recreation. I cannot repeat too often that I have no -quarrel with the nature cult when it remains recreative but only when -it sets up as a substitute for philosophy and religion. This involves -a confusion between the two main directions of the human spirit, a -confusion as I have said in a previous chapter between the realm of -awe and the region of wonder. Pascal exaggerates somewhat when he says -the Bible never seeks to prove religion from the “wonders” of nature. -But this remark is true to the total spirit of the Bible. A knowledge -of the flowers of the Holy Land is less necessary for an understanding -of the gospel narrative than one might suppose from Renan.[226] Renan -is simply seeking to envelop Jesus so far as possible in an Arcadian -atmosphere. In so doing he is following in the footsteps of the great -father of sentimentalists. According to M. Masson, Jesus, as depicted -by Jean-Jacques, becomes “a sort of grand master of the Golden Age.” - -Here as elsewhere the Rousseauist is seeking to identify the Arcadian -view of life with wisdom. The result is a series of extraordinarily -subtle disguises for egoism. We think we see the Rousseauist prostrate -before the ideal woman or before nature or before God himself, but -when we look more closely we see that he is only (as Sainte-Beuve said -of Alfred de Vigny) “in perpetual adoration before the holy sacrament -of himself.” The fact that he finds in nature only what he has put -there seems to be for Rousseau himself a source of satisfaction. But -the poem of Coleridge I have just quoted, in which he proclaims that so -far as nature is concerned “we receive but what we give,” is entitled -“Ode to Dejection.” One of man’s deepest needs would seem to be for -genuine communion, for a genuine escape, that is, from his ordinary -self. The hollowness of the Rousseauistic communion with nature as -well as other Rousseauistic substitutes for genuine communion is -indissolubly bound up with the subject of romantic melancholy. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -ROMANTIC MELANCHOLY - - -Rousseau and his early followers--especially perhaps his early French -followers--were very much preoccupied with the problem of happiness. -Now in a sense all men--even those who renounce the world and mortify -the flesh--aim at happiness. The important point to determine is what -any particular person means by happiness and how he hopes to attain it. -It should be plain from all that has been said that the Rousseauist -seeks happiness in the free play of the emotions. The “Influence of -the Passions on Happiness” is the significant title of one of Madame -de Staël’s early treatises. The happiness that the Rousseauist seeks -involves not merely a free play of feeling but--what is even more -important--a free play of the imagination. Feeling acquires a sort -of infinitude as a result of this coöperation of the imagination, -and so the romanticist goes, as we have seen, in quest of the thrill -superlative, as appears so clearly in his nympholepsy, his pursuit of -the “impossible she.” But the more imaginative this quest for emotional -happiness grows the more it tends to become a mere nostalgia. Happiness -is achieved so far as it is achieved at all in dreamland. Rousseau says -of himself: _Mon plus constant bonheur fut en songe_. Every finite -satisfaction by the very fact that it is finite leaves him unsatisfied. -René says that he had exhausted solitude as he had exhausted society: -they had both failed to satisfy his insatiable desires. René plainly -takes his insatiableness to be the badge of his spiritual distinction. -To submit to any circumscribing of one’s desires is to show that -one has no sense of infinitude and so to sink to the level of the -philistine. - -But does one become happy by being nostalgic and hyperæsthetic, by -burning with infinite indeterminate desire? We have here perhaps the -chief irony and contradiction in the whole movement. The Rousseauist -seeks happiness and yet on his own showing, his mode of seeking it -results, not in happiness but in wretchedness. One finds indeed figures -in the nineteenth century, a Browning, for example, who see in life -first of all an emotional adventure and then carry this adventure -through to the end with an apparently unflagging gusto. One may affirm -nevertheless that a movement which began by asserting the goodness -of man and the loveliness of nature ended by producing the greatest -literature of despair the world has ever seen. No movement has perhaps -been so prolific of melancholy as emotional romanticism. To follow it -from Rousseau down to the present day is to run through the whole gamut -of gloom.[227] - - Infections of unutterable sadness, - Infections of incalculable madness, - Infections of incurable despair. - -According to a somewhat doubtful authority, Ninon de Lenclos, “the -joy of the spirit measures its force.” When the romanticist on the -other hand discovers that his ideal of happiness works put into actual -unhappiness he does not blame his ideal. He simply assumes that the -world is unworthy of a being so exquisitely organized as himself, and -so shrinks back from it and enfolds himself in his sorrow as he would -in a mantle. Since the superlative bliss that he craves eludes him -he will at least be superlative in woe. So far from being a mark of -failure this woe measures his spiritual grandeur. “A great soul,” as -René says, “must contain more grief than a small one.” The romantic -poets enter into a veritable competition with one another as to who -shall be accounted the most forlorn. The victor in this competition -is awarded the palm not merely for poetry but wisdom. In the words of -Arnold: - - Amongst us one - Who most has suffered, takes dejectedly - His seat upon the intellectual throne; - And all his store of sad experience he - Lays bare of wretched days. - Tells us his misery’s birth and growth and signs, - And how the dying spark of hope was fed, - And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, - And all his hourly varied anodynes. - - This for our wisest! and we others pine, - And wish the long unhappy dream would end, - And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear; - With close-lipped patience for our only friend, - Sad patience, too near neighbor to despair. - -Though Arnold may in this poem, as some one has complained, reduce the -muse to the rôle of hospital nurse, he is, like his master Senancour, -free from the taint of theatricality. He does not as he said of Byron -make “a pageant of his bleeding heart”; and the Byronic pose has a -close parallel in the pose of Chateaubriand. An Irish girl at London -once told Chateaubriand that “he carried his heart in a sling.” He -himself said that he had a soul of the kind “the ancients called a -sacred malady.” - -Chateaubriand, to be sure, had his cheerful moments and many of them. -His sorrows he bestowed upon the public. Herein he was a true child -of Jean-Jacques. We are told by eye-witnesses how heartily Rousseau -enjoyed many aspects of his life at Motiers-Travers. On his own -showing, he was plunged during this period in almost unalloyed misery. -Froude writes of Carlyle: “It was his peculiarity that if matters were -well with himself, it never occurred to him that they could be going -ill with any one else; and, on the other hand, if he was uncomfortable, -he required everybody to be uncomfortable along with him.” We can -follow clear down to Gissing the assumption in some form or other that -“art must be the mouthpiece of misery.” This whole question as to the -proper function of art goes to the root of the debate between the -classicist and the Rousseauist. “All these poets,” Goethe complains to -Eckermann of the romanticists of 1830, “write as though they were ill, -and as though the whole world were a hospital. … Every one of them in -writing tries to be more desolate than all the others. This is really -an abuse of poetry which has been given to make man satisfied with the -world and with his lot. But the present generation is afraid of all -solid energy; its mind is at ease and sees poetry only in weakness. I -have found a good expression to vex these gentlemen. I am going to call -their poetry hospital poetry.”[228] - -Now Goethe is here, like Chateaubriand, mocking to some degree his own -followers. When he suffered from a spiritual ailment of any kind he got -rid of it by inoculating others with it; and it was in this way, as we -learn from his Autobiography, that he got relief from the _Weltschmerz_ -of “Werther.” But later in life Goethe was classical not merely in -precept like Chateaubriand, but to some extent in practice. The best of -the poetry of his maturity tends like that of the ancients to elevate -and console. - -The contrast between classic and romantic poetry in this matter of -melancholy is closely bound up with the larger contrast between -imitation and spontaneity. Homer is the greatest of poets, according -to Aristotle, because he does not entertain us with his own person but -is more than any other poet an imitator. The romantic poet writes, on -the other hand, as Lamartine says he wrote, solely for the “relief of -his heart.” He pours forth himself--his most intimate and private self; -above all, his anguish and his tears. In his relation to his reader, as -Musset tells us in a celebrated image,[229] he is like the pelican who -rends and lacerates his own flesh to provide nourishment for his young -(_Pour toute nourriture il apporte son cœur_): - - _Les plus désespérés sont les chants les plus beaux,_ - _Et j’en sais d’immortels qui sont de purs sanglots._[230] - -To make of poetry a spontaneous overflow of powerful emotion, usually -of sorrowful emotion, is what the French understand by lyricism (_le -lyrisme_); and it may be objected that it is not fair to compare an -epic poet like Homer with a lyricist like Musset. Let us then take for -our comparison the poet whom the ancients themselves looked upon as -the supreme type of the lyricist--Pindar. He is superbly imaginative, -“sailing,” as Gray tells us, “with supreme dominion through the azure -deep of air,” but his imagination is not like that of Musset in the -service of sensibility. He does not bestow his own emotions upon us -but is rather in the Aristotelian sense an imitator. He is indeed at -the very opposite pole from Rousseau and the “apostles of affliction.” -“Let a man,” he says, “not darken delight in his life.” “Disclose not -to strangers our burden of care; this at least shall I advise thee. -Therefore is it fitting to show openly to all the folk the fair and -pleasant things allotted us; but if any baneful misfortune sent of -heaven befalleth man, it is seemly to shroud this in darkness.”[231] -And one should also note Pindar’s hostility towards that other great -source of romantic lyricism--nostalgia (“The desire of the moth for -the star”), and the closely allied pursuit of the strange and the -exotic. He tells of the condign punishment visited by Apollo upon the -girl Coronis who became enamoured of “a strange man from Arcadia,” and -adds: “She was in love with things remote--that passion which many ere -now have felt. For among men, there is a foolish company of those who, -putting shame on what they have at home, cast their glances afar, and -pursue idle dreams in hopes that shall not be fulfilled.”[232] - -We are not to suppose that Pindar was that most tiresome and -superficial of all types--the professional optimist who insists on -inflicting his “gladness” upon us. “The immortals,” he says, “apportion -to man two sorrows for every boon they grant.”[233] In general the -Greek whom Kipling sings and whom we already find in Schiller--the -Greek who is an incarnation of the “joy of life unquestioned, the -everlasting wondersong of youth”[234]--is a romantic myth. We read -in the Iliad:[235] “Of all the creatures that breathe or crawl upon -the earth, none is more wretched than man.” Here is the “joy of life -unquestioned” in Homer. Like Homer the best of the later Greeks -and Romans face unflinchingly the facts of life and these facts do -not encourage a thoughtless elation. Their melancholy is even more -concerned with the lot of man in general than with their personal and -private grief. The quality of this melancholy is rendered in Tennyson’s -line on Virgil, one of the finest in nineteenth century English poetry: - - Thou majestic in thy sadness at the doubtful doom of human kind.[236] - -One should indeed not fail to distinguish between the note of -melancholy in a Homer or a Virgil and the melancholy of the ancients, -whether Stoic or Epicurean, who had experienced the hopelessness and -helplessness of a pure naturalism in dealing with ultimate problems. -The melancholy of the Stoic is the melancholy of the man who associates -with the natural order a “virtue” that the natural order does not give, -and so is tempted to exclaim at last with Brutus, that he had thought -virtue a thing and had found that it was only a word. The melancholy of -the Epicurean is that of the man who has tasted the bitter sediment -(_amari aliquid_) in the cup of pleasure. It is not difficult to -discover modern equivalents of both Stoic and Epicurean melancholy. -“One should seek,” says Sainte-Beuve, “in the pleasures of René the -secret of his _ennuis_,” and so far as this is true Chateaubriand is -on much the same level as some Roman voluptuary who suffered from -the _tædium vitæ_ in the time of Tiberius or Nero.[237] But though -the Roman decadent gave himself up to the pursuit of sensation and -often of violent and abnormal sensation he was less prone than a -Chateaubriand to associate this pursuit with the “infinite”; and so he -was less nostalgic and hyperæsthetic. His Epicureanism was therefore -less poetical no doubt, but on the other hand he did not set up mere -romantic restlessness as a sort of substitute for religion. It was -probably easier therefore for him to feel the divine discontent and -so turn to real religion than it would have been if he had, like the -Rousseauist, complicated his Epicureanism with sham spirituality. - -To say that the melancholy even of the decadent ancient is less -nostalgic is perhaps only another way of saying what I have said about -the melancholy of the ancients in general--that it is not so purely -personal. It derives less from his very private and personal illusions -and still less from his very private and personal disillusions. In -its purely personal quality romantic melancholy is indeed inseparable -from the whole conception of original genius. The genius sets out not -merely to be unique but unique in feeling, and the sense uniqueness in -feeling speedily passes over into that of uniqueness in suffering--on -the principle no doubt laid down by Horace Walpole that life, which is -a comedy for those who think, is a tragedy for those who feel. To be -a beautiful soul, to preserve one’s native goodness of feeling among -men who have been perverted by society, is to be the elect of nature -and yet this election turns out as Rousseau tells us to be a “fatal -gift of heaven.” It is only the disillusioned romanticist, however, -who assumes this elegiac tone. We need to consider what he means by -happiness while he still seeks for it in the actual world and not in -the _pays des chimères_. Rousseau tells us that he based the sense -of his own worth on the fineness of his powers of perception. Why -should nature have endowed him with such exquisite faculties[238] if -he was not to have a satisfaction commensurate with them, if he was -“to die without having lived”? We have here the psychological origins -of the right to happiness that the romanticists were to proclaim. -“We spend on the passions,” says Joubert, “the stuff that has been -given us for happiness.” The Rousseauist hopes to find his happiness -in the passions themselves. Romantic happiness does not involve any -moral effort and has been defined in its extreme forms as a “monstrous -dream of passive enjoyment.” Flaubert has made a study of the right to -happiness thus understood in his “Madame Bovary.” Madame Bovary, who -is very commonplace in other respects, feels exquisitely; and inasmuch -as her husband had no such fineness the right to happiness meant for -her, as it did for so many other “misunderstood” women, the right -to extra-marital adventure. One should note the germs of melancholy -that lurk in the quest of the superlative moment even if the quest is -relatively successful. Suppose Saint-Preux had succeeded in compressing -into a single instant “the delights of a thousand centuries”; and so -far as outer circumstances are concerned had had to pay no penalty. The -nearer the approach to a superhuman intensity of feeling the greater is -likely to be the ensuing languor. The ordinary round of life seems pale -and insipid compared with the exquisite and fugitive moment. One seems -to one’s self to have drained the cup of life at a draught and save -perhaps for impassioned recollection of the perfect moment to have no -reason for continuing to live. One’s heart is “empty and swollen”[239] -and one is haunted by thoughts of suicide. - -This sense of having exhausted life[240] and the accompanying -temptation to suicide that are such striking features of the malady -of the age are not necessarily associated with any outer enjoyment at -all. One may devour life in revery and then the melancholy arises from -the disproportion between the dream and the fact. The revery that thus -consumes life in advance is not necessarily erotic. What may be termed -the cosmic revery of a Senancour or an Amiel[241] has very much the -same effect. - -The atony and aridity of which the sufferer from romantic melancholy -complains may have other sources besides the depression that follows -upon the achieving of emotional intensity whether in revery or in fact; -it may also be an incident in the warfare between head and heart that -assumes so many forms among the spiritual posterity of Jean-Jacques. -The Rousseauist seeks happiness in emotional spontaneity and this -spontaneity seems to be killed by the head which stands aloof and -dissects and analyzes. Perhaps the best picture of the emotionalist -who is thus incapacitated for a frank surrender to his own emotions -is the “Adolphe” of Benjamin Constant (a book largely reminiscent of -Constant’s actual affair with Madame de Staël). - -Whether the victim of romantic melancholy feels or analyzes he -is equally incapable of action. He who faces resolutely the rude -buffetings of the world is gradually hardened against them. The -romantic movement is filled with the groans of those who have evaded -action and at the same time become highly sensitive and highly -self-conscious. The man who thrills more exquisitely to pleasure than -another will also thrill more exquisitely to pain; nay, pleasure itself -in its extreme is allied to pain;[242] so that to be hyperæsthetic is -not an unmixed advantage especially if it be true, as Pindar says, -that the Gods bestow two trials on a man for every boon. Perhaps the -deepest bitterness is found, not in those who make a pageant of their -bleeding hearts, but in those who, like Leconte de Lisle[243] and -others (_les impassibles_), disdain to make a show of themselves to the -mob, and so dissimulate their quivering sensibility under an appearance -of impassibility; or, like Stendhal, under a mask of irony that “is -imperceptible to the vulgar.” - -Stendhal aims not at emotional intensity only, but also glorifies the -lust for power. He did as much as any one in his time to promote the -ideal of the superman. Yet even if the superman has nerves of steel, -as seems to have been the case with Stendhal’s favorite, Napoleon, and -acts on the outer world with a force of which the man in search of a -sensation is quite incapable, he does not act upon himself, he remains -ethically passive. This ethical passivity is the trait common to all -those who incline to live purely on the naturalistic level--whether -they sacrifice the human law and its demands for measure to the lust -of knowledge or the lust of sensation or the lust of power. The man -who neglects his ethical self and withdraws into his temperamental or -private self, must almost necessarily have the sense of isolation, -of remoteness from other men. We return here to the psychology of -the original genius to whom it was a tame and uninteresting thing -to be simply human and who, disdaining to seem to others a being of -the same clay as themselves, wished to be in their eyes either an -angel or a demon--above all a demon.[244] René does not, as I have -said,[245] want even the woman who loves him to feel at one with him, -but rather to be at once astonished and appalled. He exercises upon -those who approach him a malign fascination; for he not only lives -in misery himself as in his natural element, but communicates this -misery to those who approach him. He is like one of those fair trees -under which one cannot sit without perishing. Moreover René disavows -all responsibility for thus being a human Upas-tree. Moral effort is -unavailing, for it was all written in the book of fate. The victim of -romantic melancholy is at times tender and elegiac, at other times he -sets up as a heaven-defying Titan. This latter pose became especially -common in France around 1830 when the influence of Byron had been added -to that of Chateaubriand. Under the influence of these two writers a -whole generation of youth became “things of dark imaginings,”[246] -predestined to a blight that was at the same time the badge of their -superiority. One wished like René to have an “immense, solitary and -stormy soul,” and also, like a Byronic hero, to have a diabolical glint -in the eye and a corpse-like complexion,[247] and so seem the “blind -and deaf agent of funereal mysteries.”[248] “It was possible to believe -everything about René except the truth.” The person who delights in -being as mysterious as this easily falls into mystification. Byron -himself we are told was rather flattered by the rumor that he had -committed at least one murder. Baudelaire, it has been said, displayed -his moral gangrene as a warrior might display honorable wounds. This -flaunting of his own perversity was part of the literary attitude he -had inherited from the “Satanic School.” - -When the romanticist is not posing as the victim of fate he poses -as the victim of society. Both ways of dodging moral responsibility -enter into the romantic legend of the _poète maudit_. Nobody loves -a poet. His own mother according to Baudelaire utters a malediction -upon him.[249] That is because the poet feels so exquisitely that he -is at once odious and unintelligible to the ordinary human pachyderm. -Inasmuch as the philistine is not too sensitive to act he has a great -advantage over the poet in the real world and often succeeds in driving -him from it and indeed from life itself. This inferiority in action is -a proof of the poet’s ideality. “His gigantic wings,” as Baudelaire -says, “keep him from walking.” He has, in Coleridgean phrase, fed on -“honey dew and drunk the milk of paradise,”[250] and so can scarcely -be expected to submit to a diet of plain prose. It is hardly necessary -to say that great poets of the past have not been at war with their -public in this way. The reason is that they were less taken up with -the uttering of their own uniqueness; they were, without ceasing to be -themselves, servants of the general sense. - -Chatterton became for the romanticists a favorite type of the _poète -maudit_, and his suicide a symbol of the inevitable defeat of the -“ideal” by the “real.” The first performance of Vigny’s Chatterton -(1835) with its picture of the implacable hatred of the philistine -for the artist was received by the romantic youth of Paris with -something akin to delirium. As Gautier says in his well-known account -of this performance one could almost hear in the night the crack of -the solitary pistols. The ordinary man of letters, says Vigny in -his preface to this play, is sure of success, even the great writer -may get a hearing, but the poet, a being who is on a far higher -level than either, can look forward only to “perpetual martyrdom and -immolation.” He comes into the world to be a burden to others; his -native sensibility is so intimate and profound that it “has plunged -him from childhood into involuntary ecstasies, interminable reveries, -infinite inventions. Imagination possesses him above all … it sweeps -his faculties heavenward as irresistibly as the balloon carries up -its car.” From that time forth he is more or less cut off from normal -contact with his fellow-men. “His sensibility has become too keen; -what only grazes other men wounds him until he bleeds.” He is thrown -back more and more upon himself and becomes a sort of living volcano, -“consumed by secret ardors and inexplicable languors,” and incapable -of self-guidance. Such is the poet. From his first appearance he is -an outlaw. Let all your tears and all your pity be for him. If he is -finally forced to suicide not he but society is to blame. He is like -the scorpion that cruel boys surround with live coals and that is -finally forced to turn his sting upon himself. Society therefore owes -it to itself to see that this exquisite being is properly pensioned and -protected by government, to the end that idealism may not perish from -the earth. M. Thiers who was prime minister at that time is said to -have received a number of letters from young poets, the general tenor -of which was: “A position or I’ll kill myself.”[251] - -A circumstance that should interest Americans is that Poe as -interpreted by Baudelaire came to hold for a later generation of -romanticists the place that Chatterton had held for the romanticists -of 1830. Poe was actually murdered, says Baudelaire--and there is an -element of truth in the assertion along with much exaggeration--by -this great gas-lighted barbarity (i.e., America). All his inner and -spiritual life whether drunkard’s or poet’s, was one constant effort to -escape from this antipathetic atmosphere “in which,” Baudelaire goes on -to say, “the impious love of liberty has given birth to a new tyranny, -the tyranny of the beasts, a zoöcracy”; and in this human zoo a being -with such a superhuman fineness of sensibility as Poe was of course at -a hopeless disadvantage. In general our elation at Poe’s recognition in -Europe should be tempered by the reflection that this recognition is -usually taken as a point of departure for insulting America. Poe is -about the only hyperæsthetic romanticist we have had, and he therefore -fell in with the main European tendency that comes down from the -eighteenth century. Villiers de l’Isle-Adam, whom I have already cited -as an extreme example of romantic idealism, was one of Poe’s avowed -followers; but Villiers is also related by his æsthetic and “diabolic” -Catholicism to Chateaubriand; and the religiosity of Chateaubriand -itself derives from the religiosity of Rousseau. - -Hitherto I have been studying for the most part only one main type of -modern melancholy. This type even in a Chateaubriand or a Byron and -still more in their innumerable followers may seem at once superficial -and theatrical. It often does not get beyond that Epicurean toying with -sorrow, that luxury of grief, which was not unknown even to classical -antiquity.[252] The despair of Chateaubriand is frequently only a -disguise of his love of literary glory, and Chesterton is inclined to -see in the Byronic gloom an incident of youth and high spirits.[253] -But this is not the whole story even in Byron and Chateaubriand. To -find what is both genuine and distinctive in romantic melancholy we -need to enlarge a little further on the underlying difference between -the classicist and the Rousseauist. The Rousseauist, as indeed the -modern man in general, is more preoccupied with his separate and -private self than the classicist. Modern melancholy has practically -always this touch of isolation not merely because of the proneness -of the “genius” to dwell on his own uniqueness, but also because of -the undermining of the traditional communions by critical analysis. -The noblest form of the “malady of the age” is surely that which -supervened upon the loss of religious faith. This is what distinguishes -the sadness of an Arnold or a Senancour from that of a Gray. The -“Elegy” belongs to the modern movement by the humanitarian note, the -sympathetic interest in the lowly, but in its melancholy it does -not go much beyond the milder forms of classical meditation on the -inevitable sadness of life--what one may term pensiveness. Like the -other productions of the so-called graveyard school, it bears a direct -relation to Milton’s “Il Penseroso.” It is well to retain Gray’s own -distinction. “Mine is a white Melancholy, or rather Leucocholy for the -most part,” he wrote to Richard West in 1742, “but there is another -sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt.” Gray did not -experience the more poignant sadness, one may suspect, without some -loss of the “trembling hope” that is the final note of the “Elegy.” No -forlornness is greater than that of the man who has known faith and -then lost it. Renan writes of his own break with the Church: - - The fish of Lake Baikal, we are told, have spent thousands - of years in becoming fresh-water fish after being salt-water - fish. I had to go through my transition in a few weeks. Like an - enchanted circle Catholicism embraces the whole of life with so - much strength that when one is deprived of it everything seems - insipid. I was terribly lost. The universe produced upon me - the impression of a cold and arid desert. For the moment that - Christianity was not the truth, all the rest appeared to me - indifferent, frivolous, barely worthy of interest. The collapse - of my life upon itself left in me a feeling of emptiness - like that which follows an attack of fever or an unhappy - love-affair.[254] - -The forlornness at the loss of faith is curiously combined in many of -the romanticists with the mood of revolt. This type of romanticist -heaps reproaches on a God in whose existence he no longer believes -(as in Leconte de Lisle’s “Quaïn,” itself related to Byron’s “Cain”). -He shakes his fist at an empty heaven, or like Alfred de Vigny (in -his _Jardin des Oliviers_) assumes towards this emptiness an attitude -of proud disdain. He is loath to give up this grandiose defiance of -divinity if only because it helps to save him from subsiding into -platitude. A somewhat similar mood appears in the “Satanic” Catholics -who continue to cling to religion simply because it adds to the gusto -of sinning.[255] A Barbey succeeded in combining the rôle of Byronic -Titan with that of champion of the Church. But in general the romantic -Prometheus spurns the traditional forms of communion whether classical -or Christian. He is so far as everything established is concerned -enormously centrifugal, but he hopes to erect on the ruins of the past -the new religion of human brotherhood. Everything in this movement from -Shaftesbury down hinges on the rôle that is thus assigned to sympathy: -if it can really unite men who are at the same time indulging each to -the utmost his own “genius” or idiosyncrasy there is no reason why one -should not accept romanticism as a philosophy of life. - -But nowhere else perhaps is the clash more violent between the theory -and the fact. No movement is so profuse in professions of brotherhood -and none is so filled with the aching sense of solitude. “Behold me -then alone upon the earth,” is the sentence with which Rousseau begins -his last book;[256] and he goes on to marvel that he, the “most loving -of men,” had been forced more and more into solitude. “I am in the -world as though in a strange planet upon which I have fallen from the -one that I inhabited.”[257] When no longer subordinated to something -higher than themselves both the head and the heart (in the romantic -sense) not only tend to be opposed to one another, but also, each in -its own way, to isolate. Empedocles was used not only by Arnold but by -other victims[258] of romantic melancholy, as a symbol of intellectual -isolation: by his indulgence in the “imperious lonely thinking power” -Empedocles has broken the warm bonds of sympathy with his fellows: - - thou art - A living man no more, Empedocles! - Nothing but a devouring flame of thought,-- - But a naked eternally restless mind! - -His leaping into Ætna typifies his attempt to escape from his -loneliness by a fiery union with nature herself. - -According to religion one should seek to unite with a something that -is set above both man and nature, whether this something is called -God as in Christianity or simply the Law as in various philosophies -of the Far East.[259] The most severe penalty visited on the man who -transgresses is that he tends to fall away from this union. This is -the element of truth in the sentence of Diderot that Rousseau took as -a personal affront: “Only the wicked man is alone.” Rousseau asserted -in reply, anticipating Mark Twain,[260] that “on the contrary only -the good man is alone.” Now in a sense Rousseau is right. “Most men -are bad,” as one of the seven sages of Greece remarked, and any one -who sets out to follow a very strenuous virtue is likely to have few -companions on the way. Rousseau is also right in a sense when he says -that the wicked man needs to live in society so that he may have -opportunity to practice his wickedness. Yet Rousseau fails to face the -main issue: solitude is above all a psychic thing. A man may frequent -his fellows and suffer none the less acutely, like Poe’s “Man of the -Crowd,” from a ghastly isolation. And conversely one may be like the -ancient who said that he was never less alone than when he was alone. - -Hawthorne, who was himself a victim of solitude, brooded a great deal -on this whole problem, especially, as may be seen in the “Scarlet -Letter” and elsewhere, on the isolating effects of sin. He perceived -the relation of the problem to the whole trend of religious life in -New England. The older Puritans had a sense of intimacy with God and -craved no other companionship. With the weakening of their faith the -later Puritans lost the sense of a divine companionship, but retained -their aloofness from men. Hawthorne’s own solution of the problem -of solitude, so far as he offers any, is humanitarian. Quicken your -sympathies. Let the man who has taken as his motto _Excelsior_[261] -be warned. Nothing will console him on the bleak heights either of -knowledge or of power for the warm contact with the dwellers in the -valley. Faust, who is a symbol of the solitude of knowledge, seeks to -escape from his forlornness by recovering this warm contact. That the -inordinate quest of power also leads to solitude is beyond question. -Napoleon, the very type of the superman, must in the nature of the case -have been very solitary.[262] His admirer Nietzsche wrote one day: “I -have forty-three years behind me and am as alone as if I were a child.” -Carlyle, whose “hero” derives like the superman from the original -genius[263] of the eighteenth century, makes the following entry in his -diary: “My isolation, my feeling of loneliness, unlimitedness (much -meant by this) what tongue shall say? Alone, alone!”[264] - -It cannot be granted, however, that one may escape by love, as the -Rousseauist understands the word, from the loneliness that arises from -the unlimited quest either of knowledge or power. For Rousseauistic -love is also unlimited whether one understands by love either passion -or a diffusive sympathy for mankind at large. “What solitudes are these -human bodies,” Musset exclaimed when fresh from his affair with George -Sand. Wordsworth cultivated a love for the lowly that quite overflowed -the bounds of neo-classic selection. It is a well-known fact that the -lowly did not altogether reciprocate. “A desolate-minded man, ye kna,” -said an old inn-keeper of the Lakes to Canon Rawnsley, “’Twas potry as -did it.” If Wordsworth writes so poignantly of solitude one may infer -that it is because he himself had experienced it.[265] Nor would it be -difficult to show that the very philanthropic Ruskin was at least as -solitary as Carlyle with his tirades against philanthropy. - -I have spoken of the isolating effects of sin, but sin is scarcely the -right word to apply to most of the romanticists. The solitude of which -so many of them complain does, however, imply a good deal of spiritual -inertia. Now to be spiritually inert, as I have said elsewhere, is -to be temperamental, to indulge unduly the lust for knowledge or -sensation or power without imposing on these lusts some centre or -principle of control set above the ordinary self. The man who wishes -to fly off on the tangent of his own temperament and at the same time -enjoy communion on any except the purely material level is harboring -incompatible desires. For temperament is what separates. A sense of -unlimitedness (“much meant by this” as Carlyle says) and of solitude -are simply the penalties visited upon the eccentric individualist. If -we are to unite on the higher levels with other men we must look in -another direction than the expansive outward striving of temperament: -we must in either the humanistic or religious sense undergo conversion. -We must pull back our temperaments with reference to the model that -we are imitating, just as, in Aristotle’s phrase, one might pull -back and straighten out a crooked stick.[266] Usually the brake on -temperament is supplied by the ethos, the convention of one’s age and -country. I have tried to show elsewhere that the whole programme of -the eccentric individualist is to get rid of this convention, whatever -it may be, without developing some new principle of control. The -eccentric individualist argues that to accept control, to defer to some -centre as the classicist demands, is to cease to be himself. But are -restrictions upon temperament so fatal to a man’s being himself? The -reply hinges upon the definition of the word self, inasmuch as man is -a dual being. If a man is to escape from his isolation he must, I have -said, aim at some goal set above his ordinary self which is at the -same time his unique and separate self. But because this goal is set -above his ordinary self, it is not therefore necessarily set above his -total personality. The limitations that he imposes on his ordinary -self may be the necessary condition of his entering into possession of -his ethical self, the self that he possesses in common with other men. -Aristotle says that if a man wishes to achieve happiness he must be a -true lover of himself. It goes without saying that he means the ethical -self. The author of a recent book on Ibsen says that Ibsen’s message to -the world is summed up in the line: - - This above all,--to thine own self be true. - -It is abundantly plain from the context, however, that Polonius is a -decayed Aristotelian and not a precursor of Ibsen. The self to which -Aristotle would have a man be true is at the opposite pole from the -self that Ibsen and the original geniuses are so eager to get uttered. - -To impose the yoke of one’s human self upon one’s temperamental -self is, in the Aristotelian sense, to work. Aristotle conceives of -happiness in terms of work. All types of temperamentalists, on the -other hand, are from the human point of view, passive. The happiness -that they crave is a passive happiness. A man may pursue power with the -energy of a Napoleon and yet remain ethically passive. He may absorb -whole encyclopædias and remain ethically passive. He may expand his -sympathies until, like Schiller, he is ready to “bestow a kiss upon -the whole world” and yet remain ethically passive. A man ceases to -be ethically passive only when he begins to work in the Aristotelian -sense, that is when he begins to put the brake on temperament and -impulse, and in the same degree he tends to become ethically efficient. -By his denial of the dualism of the spirit, Rousseau discredited this -inner working, so that inwardness has come to seem synonymous with mere -subjectivity; and to be subjective in the Rousseauistic sense is to be -diffusive, to lack purpose and concentration, to lose one’s self in a -shoreless sea of revery. - -The utilitarian intervenes at this point and urges the romanticist, -since he has failed to work inwardly, at least to work outwardly. -Having missed the happiness of ethical efficiency he may in this way -find the happiness of material efficiency, and at the same time serve -the world. This is the solution of the problem of happiness that Goethe -offers at the end of the Second Faust, and we may affirm without -hesitation that it is a sham solution. To work outwardly and in the -utilitarian sense, without the inner working that can alone save from -ethical anarchy is to stimulate rather than repress the most urgent -of all the lusts--the lust of power. It is only too plain that the -unselective sympathy or joy in service with which Goethe would complete -Faust’s utilitarian activity is not in itself a sufficient counterpoise -to the will to power, unless indeed we assume with Rousseau that one -may control expansive impulses by opposing them to one another. - -A terrible danger thus lurks in the whole modern programme: it is a -programme that makes for a formidable mechanical efficiency and so -tends to bring into an ever closer material contact men who remain -ethically centrifugal. The reason why the humanitarian and other -schemes of communion that have been set up during the last century -have failed is that they do not, like the traditional schemes, set -any bounds to mere expansiveness, or, if one prefers, they do not -involve any conversion. And so it is not surprising that the feeling -of emptiness[267] or unlimitedness and isolation should be the special -mark of the melancholy of this period. René complains of his “moral -solitude”;[268] but strictly speaking his solitude is the reverse of -moral. Only by cultivating his human self and by the unceasing effort -that this cultivation involves does a man escape from his nightmare of -separateness and so move in some measure towards happiness. But the -happiness of which René dreams is unethical--something very private and -personal and egoistic. Nothing is easier than to draw the line from -René to Baudelaire and later decadents--for instance to Des Esseintes, -the hero of Huysmans’s novel “A Rebours,”[269] who is typical of the -last exaggerations of the movement. Des Esseintes cuts himself off as -completely as possible from other men and in the artificial paradise -he has devised gives himself up to the quest of strange and violent -sensation; but his dream of happiness along egoistic lines turns into -a nightmare,[270] his palace of art becomes a hell. Lemaître is quite -justified in saying of Des Esseintes that he is only René or Werther -brought up to date--“a played-out and broken-down Werther who has -a malady of the nerves, a deranged stomach and eighty years more of -literature to the bad.”[271] - -Emotional romanticism was headed from the start towards this bankruptcy -because of its substitution for ethical effort of a mere lazy floating -on the stream of mood and temperament. I have said that Buddhism -saw in this ethical indolence the root of all evil. Christianity in -its great days was preoccupied with the same problem. To make this -point clear it will be necessary to add to what I have said about -classical and romantic melancholy a few words about melancholy in the -Middle Ages. In a celebrated chapter of his “Genius of Christianity” -(_Le Vague des passions_) Chateaubriand seeks to give to the malady -of the age Christian and mediæval origins. This was his pretext, -indeed, for introducing René into an apology for Christianity and so, -as Sainte-Beuve complained, administering poison in a sacred wafer. -Chateaubriand begins by saying that the modern man is melancholy -because, without having had experience himself, he is at the same -time overwhelmed by the second-hand experience that has been heaped -up in the books and other records of an advanced civilization; and so -he suffers from a precocious disillusion; he has the sense of having -exhausted life before he has enjoyed it. There is nothing specifically -Christian in this disillusion and above all nothing mediæval. But -Chateaubriand goes on to say that from the decay of the pagan world -and the barbarian invasions the human spirit received an impression -of sadness and possibly a tinge of misanthropy which has never been -completely effaced. Those that were thus wounded and estranged from -their fellow-men took refuge formerly in monasteries, but now that -this resource has failed them, they are left in the world without being -of it and so they “become the prey of a thousand chimeras.” Then is -seen the rise of that guilty melancholy which the passions engender -when, left without definite object, they prey upon themselves in a -solitary heart.[272] - -The _vague des passions_, the expansion of infinite indeterminate -desire, that Chateaubriand here describes may very well be related to -certain sides of Christianity--especially to what may be termed its -neo-Platonic side. Yet Christianity at its best has shown itself a -genuine religion, in other words, it has dealt sternly and veraciously -with the facts of human nature. It has perceived clearly how a man may -move towards happiness and how on the other hand he tends to sink into -despair; or what amounts to the same thing, it has seen the supreme -importance of spiritual effort and the supreme danger of spiritual -sloth. The man who looked on himself as cut off from God and so ceased -to strive was according to the mediæval Christian the victim of -_acedia_. This sluggishness and slackness of spirit, this mere drifting -and abdication of will, may, as Chaucer’s parson suggests, be the crime -against the Holy Ghost itself. It would in fact not be hard to show -that what was taken by the Rousseauist to be the badge of spiritual -distinction was held by the mediæval Christian to be the chief of all -the deadly sins. - -The victim of _acedia_ often looked upon himself, like the victim of -the malady of the age, as foredoomed. But though the idea of fate -enters at times into mediæval melancholy, the man of the Middle Ages -could scarcely so detach himself from the community as to suffer -from that sense of loneliness which is the main symptom of romantic -melancholy. This forlornness was due not merely to the abrupt -disappearance of the older forms of communion, but to the failure of -the new attempts at communion. When one gets beneath the surface of -the nineteenth century one finds that it was above all a period of -violent disillusions, and it is especially after violent disillusion -that a man feels himself solitary and forlorn. I have said that the -special mark of the half-educated man is his harboring of incompatible -desires. The new religions or unifications of life that appeared -during the nineteenth century made an especially strong appeal to the -half-educated man because it seemed to him that by accepting some one -of these he could enjoy the benefits of communion and at the same time -not have to take on the yoke of any serious discipline; that he could, -in the language of religion, achieve salvation without conversion. When -a communion on these lines turns out to be not a reality, but a sham, -and its disillusioned votary feels solitary and forlorn, he is ready to -blame everybody and everything except himself. - -A few specific illustrations will help us to understand how romantic -solitude, which was created by the weakening of the traditional -communions, was enhanced by the collapse of various sham communions. -Let us return for a moment to that eminent example of romantic -melancholy and disillusion, Alfred de Vigny. His “Chatterton” deals -with the fatal misunderstanding of the original genius by other men. -“Moïse” deals more specifically with the problem of his solitude. The -genius is so eminent and unique, says Vigny, speaking for himself from -behind the mask of the Hebrew prophet, that he is quite cut off from -ordinary folk who feel that they have nothing in common with him.[273] -This forlornness of the genius is not the sign of some capital error in -his philosophy. On the contrary it is the sign of his divine election, -and so Moses blames God for his failure to find happiness.[274] If -the genius is cut off from communion with men he cannot hope for -companionship with God because he has grown too sceptical. Heaven is -empty and in any case dumb; and so in the poem to which I have already -referred (_Le Mont des Oliviers_) Vigny assumes the mask of Jesus -himself to express this desolateness, and concludes that the just man -will oppose a haughty and Stoic disdain to the divine silence.[275] - -All that is left for the genius is to retire into his ivory tower--a -phrase appropriately applied for the first time to Vigny.[276] In the -ivory tower he can at least commune with nature and the ideal woman. -But Vigny came at a time when the Arcadian glamour was being dissipated -from nature. Partly under scientific influence she was coming to seem -not a benign but a cold and impassive power, a collection of cruel -and inexorable laws. I have already mentioned this mood that might -be further illustrated from Taine and so many others towards the -middle of the nineteenth century.[277] “I am called a ‘mother,’” Vigny -makes Nature say, “and I am a tomb.”[278] (“La Maison du Berger”); -and so in the _Maison roulante_, or sort of Arcadia on wheels that he -has imagined, he must seek his chief solace with the ideal feminine -companion. But woman herself turns out to be treacherous; and, assuming -the mask of Samson (“La Colère de Samson”), Vigny utters a solemn -malediction upon the eternal Delilah (_Et, plus ou moins, la Femme -est toujours Dalila_). Such is the disillusion that comes from having -sought an ideal communion in a liaison with a Parisian actress.[279] - -Now that every form of communion has failed, all that is left it -would seem is to die in silence and solitude like the wolf (“La Mort -du Loup”). Vigny continues to hold, however, like the author of the -“City of Dreadful Night,” that though men may not meet in their joys, -they may commune after a fashion in their woe. He opposes to heartless -nature and her “vain splendors” the religion of pity, “the majesty of -human sufferings.”[280] Towards the end when Vigny feels the growing -prestige of science, he holds out the hope that a man may to a certain -extent escape from the solitude of his own ego into some larger whole -by contributing his mite to “progress.” But the symbol of this -communion[281] that he has chosen--that of the shipwrecked and sinking -mariner who consigns his geographical discoveries to a bottle in the -hope that it may be washed up on some civilized shore--is itself of a -singular forlornness. - -Vigny has a concentration and power of philosophical reflection that -is rare among the romanticists. George Sand is inferior to him in -this respect but she had a richer and more generous nature, and is -perhaps even more instructive in her life and writings for the student -of romantic melancholy. After the loss of the religious faith of her -childhood she became an avowed Rousseauist. She attacks a society -that seems to her to stand in the way of the happiness of which she -dreams--the supreme emotional intensity to be achieved in an ideal -love. In celebrating passion and the rights of passion she is lyrical -in the two main modes of the Rousseauist--she is either tender and -elegiac, or else stormy and Titanic. But when she attempts to practice -with Musset this religion of love, the result is violent disillusion. -In the forlornness that follows upon the collapse of her sham communion -she meditates suicide. “Ten years ago,” she wrote in 1845 to Mazzini, -“I was in Switzerland; I was still in the age of tempests; I made up -my mind even then to meet you, if I should resist the temptation to -suicide which pursued me upon the glaciers.” And then gradually a new -faith dawned upon her; she substituted for the religion of love the -religion of human brotherhood. She set up as an object of worship -humanity in its future progress; and then, like so many other dreamers, -she suffered a violent disillusion in the Revolution of 1848. The -radiant abstraction she had been worshipping had been put to the test -and she discovered that there entered into the actual make-up of the -humanity she had so idealized “a large number of knaves, a very large -number of lunatics, and an immense number of fools.” What is noteworthy -in George Sand is that she not only saved the precious principle of -faith from these repeated shipwrecks but towards the end of her life -began to put it on a firmer footing. Like Goethe she worked out to some -extent, in opposition to romanticism, a genuinely ethical point of view. - -This latter development can best be studied in her correspondence with -Flaubert. She urges him to exercise his will, and he replies that he -is as “fatalistic as a Turk.” His fatalism, however, was not oriental -but scientific or pseudo-scientific. I have already cited his demand -that man be studied “objectively” just as one would study “a mastodon -or a crocodile.” Flaubert refused to see any connection between this -determinism and his own gloom or between George Sand’s assertion -of will and her cheerfulness. It was simply, he held, a matter of -temperament, and there is no doubt some truth in this contention. -“You at the first leap mount to heaven,” he says, “while I, poor -devil, am glued to the earth as though by leaden soles.” And again: -“In spite of your great sphinx eyes you have always seen the world as -through a golden mist,” whereas “I am constantly dissecting; and when -I have finally discovered the corruption in anything that is supposed -to be pure, the gangrene in its fairest parts, then I raise my head -and laugh.” Yet George Sand’s cheerfulness is also related to her -perception of a power in man to work upon himself--a power that sets -him apart from other animals. To enter into this region of ethical -effort is to escape from the whole fatal circle of naturalism, and at -the same time to show some capacity to mature--a rare achievement among -the romanticists. The contrast is striking here between George Sand -and Hugo, who, as the ripe fruit of his meditations, yields nothing -better than the apotheosis of Robespierre and Marat. “I wish to see -man as he is,” she writes to Flaubert. “He is not good or bad: he is -good and bad. But he is something else besides: being good and bad he -has an inner force which leads him to be very bad and a little good, -or very good and a little bad. I have often wondered,” she adds, “why -your ‘Education Sentimentale’ was so ill received by the public, and -the reason, as it seems to me, is that its characters are passive--that -they do not act upon themselves.” But the Titaness of the period of -“Lélia” can scarcely be said to have acted upon herself, so that she is -justified in writing: “I cannot forget that my personal victory over -despair is the work of my will, and of a new way of understanding life -which is the exact opposite of the one I held formerly.” How different -is the weary cry of Flaubert: “I am like a piece of clock work, what -I am doing to-day I shall be doing to-morrow; I did exactly the same -thing yesterday; I was exactly the same man ten years ago.” - -The correspondence of Flaubert and George Sand bears interestingly on -another of the sham religions of the nineteenth century--the religion -of art. Art is for Flaubert not merely a religion but a fanaticism. He -preaches abstinence, renunciation and mortification of the flesh in the -name of art. He excommunicates those who depart from artistic orthodoxy -and speaks of heretics and disbelievers in art with a ferocity worthy -of a Spanish inquisitor. Ethical beauty such as one finds in the -Greeks at their best resides in order and proportion; it is not a thing -apart but the outcome of some harmonious whole. Beauty in the purely -æsthetic and unethical sense that Flaubert gives to the word is little -more than the pursuit of illusion. The man who thus treats beauty as -a thing apart, who does not refer back his quest of the exquisite to -some ethical centre will spend his life Ixion-like embracing phantoms. -“O Art, Art,” exclaims Flaubert, “bitter deception, nameless phantom, -which gleams and lures us to our ruin!” He speaks elsewhere of “the -chimera of style which is wearing him out soul and body.” Attaching as -he did an almost religious importance to his quest of the exquisite -he became like so many other Rousseauists not merely æsthetic but -hyperæsthetic. He complains in his old age: “My sensibility is sharper -than a razor’s edge; the creaking of a door, the face of a bourgeois, -an absurd statement set my heart to throbbing and completely upset me.” -Hardly anywhere else, indeed, will one find such accents of bitterness, -such melancholy welling up unbidden from the very depths of the heart, -as in the devotees of art for art’s sake--Flaubert, Leconte de Lisle, -Théophile Gautier. - -George Sand takes Flaubert to task with admirable tact for his failure -to subordinate art to something higher than itself. “Talent imposes -duties; and art for art’s sake is an empty word.” As she grew older she -says she came more and more to put truth above beauty, and goodness -before strength. “I have reflected a great deal on what is _true_, -and in this search for truth, the sentiment of my ego has gradually -disappeared.” The truth on which she had reflected was what she herself -calls total truth (_le vrai total_), not merely truth according to -the natural law, which received such exclusive emphasis towards the -middle of the nineteenth century as to lead to the rise of another -sham religion--the religion of science. “You have a better sense for -total truth,” she tells one of her correspondents “than Sainte-Beuve, -Renan and Littré. They have fallen into the German rut: therein lies -their weakness.” And Flaubert writes to George Sand: “What amazes and -delights me is the strength of your whole personality, not that of the -brain alone.” - -Furthermore the holding of the human law that made possible this -rounded development, this growth towards total truth, was a matter not -of tradition but of immediate perception. George Sand had succeeded, -as Taine says, in making the difficult transition from an hereditary -faith to a personal conviction. Now this perception of the human law is -something very different from the pantheistic revery in which George -Sand was also an adept. To look on revery as the equivalent of vision -in the Aristotelian sense, as Rousseau and so many of his followers -have done, is to fall into sham spirituality. Maurice de Guérin falls -into sham spirituality when he exclaims “Oh! this contact of nature -and the soul would engender an ineffable voluptuousness, a prodigious -love of heaven and of God.” I am not asserting that George Sand herself -discriminated sharply between ethical and æsthetic perception or that -she is to be rated as a very great sage at any time. Yet she owes her -recovery of serenity after suffering shock upon shock of disillusion to -her having exercised in some degree what she terms “the contemplative -sense wherein resides invincible faith” (_le sens contemplatif où -réside la foi invincible_), and the passages that bear witness to her -use of this well-nigh obsolete sense are found in her correspondence. - -Wordsworth lauds in true Rousseauistic fashion a “wise passiveness.” -But to be truly contemplative is not to be passive at all, but to be -“energetic” in Aristotle’s sense, or strenuous in Buddha’s sense. It -is a matter of no small import that the master analyst of the East and -the master analyst of the West are at one in their solution of the -supreme problem of ethics--the problem of happiness. For there can -be no doubt that the energy[282] in which the doctrine of Aristotle -culminates is the same as the “strenuousness”[283] on which Buddha puts -his final emphasis. The highest good they both agree is a contemplative -_working_. It is by thus working according to the human law that one -rises above the naturalistic level. The scientific rationalists of -the nineteenth century left no place for this true human spontaneity -when they sought to subject man entirely to the “law for thing.” This -scientific determinism was responsible for a great deal of spiritual -depression and _acedia_, especially in France during the second half -of the nineteenth century.[284] But even if science is less dogmatic -and absolute one needs to consider why it does not deserve to be given -the supreme and central place in life, why it cannot in short take the -place of humanism and religion, and the working according to the human -law that they both enjoin. - -A man may indeed effect through science a certain escape from himself, -and this is very salutary so far as it goes; he has to discipline -himself to an order that is quite independent of his own fancies and -emotions. He becomes objective in short, but objective according to -the natural and not according to the human law. Objectivity of this -kind gives control over natural forces but it does not supply the -purpose for which these forces are to be used. It gives the airship, -for instance, but does not determine whether the airship is to go on -some beneficent errand or is to scatter bombs on women and children. -Science does not even set right limits to the faculty that it chiefly -exercises--the intellect. In itself it stimulates rather than curbs one -of the three main lusts to which human nature is subject--the lust of -knowledge. Renan, who makes a religion of science, speaks of “sacred -curiosity.” But this is even more dangerous than the opposite excess -of the ascetic Christian who denounces all curiosity as vain. The man -of science avers indeed that he does subordinate his knowledge to an -adequate aim, namely the progress of humanity. But the humanity of the -Baconian is only an intellectual abstraction just as the humanity of -the Rousseauist is only an emotional dream. George Sand found, as we -have seen, that the passage from one’s dream of humanity to humanity -in the concrete involved a certain disillusion. The scientific or -rationalistic humanitarian is subject to similar disillusions.[285] -Science not only fails to set proper limits to the activity of the -intellect, but one must also note a curious paradox in its relation -to the second of the main lusts to which man is subject, the lust -for emotion (_libido sentiendi_). The prime virtue of science is to -be unemotional and at the same time keenly analytical. Now protracted -and unemotional analysis finally creates a desire, as Renan says, for -the opposite pole, “the kisses of the naïve being,” and in general -for a frank surrender to the emotions. Science thus actually prepares -clients for the Rousseauist.[286] The man of science is also flattered -by the Rousseauistic notion that conscience and virtue are themselves -only forms of emotion. He is thus saved from anything so distasteful as -having to subordinate his own scientific discipline to some superior -religious or humanistic discipline. He often oscillates between the -rationalistic and the emotional pole not only in other things but also -in his cult of humanity. But if conscience is merely an emotion there -is a cult that makes a more potent appeal to conscience than the cult -of humanity itself and that is the cult of country. One is here at the -root of the most dangerous of all the sham religions of the modern -age--the religion of country, the frenzied nationalism that is now -threatening to make an end of civilization itself. - -Both emotional nationalism and emotional internationalism go -back to Rousseau, but in his final emphasis he is an emotional -nationalist;[287] and that is because he saw that patriotic “virtue” is -a more potent intoxicant than the love of humanity. The demonstration -came in the French Revolution which began as a great international -movement on emotional lines and ended in imperialism and Napoleon -Bonaparte. It is here that the terrible peril of a science that is -pursued as an end in itself becomes manifest. It disciplines man and -makes him efficient on the naturalistic level, but leaves him ethically -undisciplined. Now in the absence of ethical discipline the lust -for knowledge and the lust for feeling count very little, at least -practically, compared with the third main lust of human nature--the -lust for power. Hence the emergence of that most sinister of all types, -the efficient megalomaniac. The final use of a science that has thus -become a tool of the lust for power is in Burke’s phrase to “improve -the mystery of murder.” - -This union of material efficiency and ethical unrestraint, though -in a way the upshot of the whole movement we have been studying, is -especially marked in the modern German. Goethe as I have pointed -out is ready to pardon Faust for grave violations of the moral law -because of work which, so far from being ethical, is, in view of the -ruin in which it involves the rustic pair, Baucis and Philemon, under -suspicion of being positively unethical. Yet Goethe was far from being -a pure utilitarian and he had reacted more than most Germans of his -time from Rousseauism. Rousseau is glorified by Germans as a chief -source of their _Kultur_, as I have already pointed out. Now _Kultur_ -when analyzed breaks up into two very different things--scientific -efficiency and emotionalism or what the Germans (and unfortunately not -the Germans alone) term “idealism.” There is no question about the -relation of this idealism to the stream of tendency of which Rousseau -is the chief representative. By his corruption of conscience Rousseau -made it possible to identify character with temperament. It was easy -for Fichte and others to take the next step and identify national -character with national temperament. The Germans according to Fichte -are all beautiful souls, the elect of nature. If they have no special -word for character it is because to be a German and have character are -synonymous. Character is something that gushes up from the primordial -depths of the German’s being without any conscious effort on his -part.[288] The members of a whole national group may thus flatter one -another and inbreed their national “genius” in the romantic sense, and -feel all the while that they are ecstatic “idealists”; yet as a result -of the failure to refer their genius back to some ethical centre, to -work, in other words, according to the human law, they may, so far as -the members of other national groups are concerned, remain in a state -of moral solitude. - -Everything thus hinges on the meaning of the word work. In the abstract -and metaphysical sense man can know nothing of unity. He may, however, -by working in the human sense, by imposing, that is, due limits on his -expansive desires, close up in some measure the gap in his own nature -(the “civil war in the cave”) and so tend to become inwardly one. He -may hope in the same way to escape from the solitude of his own ego, -for the inner unity that he achieves through work is only an entering -into possession of his ethical self, the self that he possesses in -common with other men. Thus to work ethically is not only to become -more unified and happy but also to move away from what is less -permanent towards what is more permanent and therefore more peaceful -in his total nature; so that the problem of happiness and the problem -of peace turn out at last to be inseparable. - -Souls, says Emerson, never meet; and it is true that a man never quite -escapes from his solitude. That does not make the choice of direction -any the less important. An infinite beckons to him on either hand. The -one inspires the divine discontent, the other romantic restlessness. -If instead of following the romantic lure he heeds the call from the -opposite direction, he will not indeed attain to any perfect communion -but he will be less solitary. Strictly speaking a man is never happy in -the sense of being completely satisfied with the passing moment,[289] -or never, Dr. Johnson would add, except when he is drunk. The happiness -of the sober and waking man resides, it may be, not in his content with -the present moment but in the very effort that marks his passage from a -lower to a higher ethical level. - -The happiness of which Rousseau dreamed, it has been made plain, was -not this active and ethical happiness, but rather the passive enjoyment -of the beautiful moment--the moment that he would like to have last -forever. After seeking for the beautiful moment in the intoxication of -love, he turned as we have seen to pantheistic revery. “As long as it -lasts,” he says of a moment of this kind, “one is self-sufficing like -God.” Yes, but it does not last, and when he wakes from his dream of -communion with nature, he is still solitary, still the prisoner of -his ego. The pantheistic dreamer is passive in every sense. He is not -working either according to the human or according to the natural law, -and so is not gaining either in material or in ethical efficiency. -In a world such as that in which we live this seems too much like -picnicking on a battlefield. Rousseau could on occasion speak shrewdly -on this point. He wrote to a youthful enthusiast who wished to come -and live with him at Montmorency: “The first bit of advice I should -like to give you is not to indulge in the taste you say you have for -the contemplative life and which is only an indolence of the spirit -reprehensible at every age and especially at yours. Man is not made to -meditate but to act.” - -The contemplative life is then, according to Rousseau, the opposite -of action. But to contemplate is according to an Aristotle or a -Buddha to engage in the most important form of action, the form that -leads to happiness. To identify leisure and the contemplative life -with pantheistic revery, as Rousseau does, is to fall into one of -the most vicious of confusions. Perhaps indeed the most important -contrast one can reach in a subject of this kind is that between a -wise strenuousness and a more or less wise passiveness, between the -spiritual athlete and the cosmic loafer, between a Saint Paul, let us -say, and a Walt Whitman. - -The spiritual idling and drifting of the Rousseauist would be less -sinister if it did not coexist in the world of to-day with an intense -material activity. The man who seeks happiness by work according to the -natural law is to be rated higher than the man who seeks happiness in -some form of emotional intoxication (including pantheistic revery). -He is not left unarmed, a helpless dreamer in the battle of life. The -type of efficiency he is acquiring also helps him to keep at bay man’s -great enemy, ennui. An Edison, we may suppose, who is drawn ever onward -by the lure of wonder and curiosity and power, has little time to be -bored. It is surely better to escape from the boredom of life after the -fashion of Edison than after the fashion of Baudelaire.[290] - -I have already pointed out, however, the peril in a one-sided working -of this kind. It makes man efficient without making him ethical. It -stimulates rather than corrects a fearless, formless expansion on the -human level. This inordinate reaching out beyond bounds is, as the -great Greek poets saw with such clearness, an invitation to Nemesis. -The misery that results from unrestraint, from failure to work -according to the human law, is something different from mere pain and -far more to be dreaded; just as the happiness that results from a right -working according to the human law is something different from mere -pleasure and far more worthy of pursuit. - -The present alliance between emotional romanticists and -utilitarians[291] is a veritable menace to civilization itself. It -does not follow, as I said in a previous chapter, because revery or -“intuition of the creative flux” cannot take the place of leisure or -meditation, that one must therefore condemn it utterly. It may like -other forms of romanticism have a place on the recreative side of -life. What finally counts is work according to either the human or -the natural law, but man cannot always be working. He needs moments -of relief from tension and concentration and even, it should seem, of -semi-oblivion of his conscious self. As one of the ways of winning such -moments of relaxation and partial forgetfulness much may be said for -revery. In general one must grant the solace and rich source of poetry -that is found in communion with nature even though the final emphasis -be put on communion with man. It is no small thing to be, as Arnold -says Wordsworth was, a “priest of the wonder and bloom of the world.” -One cannot however grant the Wordsworthian that to be a priest of -wonder is necessarily to be also a priest of wisdom. Thus to promote to -the supreme and central place something that is legitimate in its own -degree, but secondary, is to risk starting a sham religion. - -Those who have sought to set up a cult of love or beauty or science or -humanity or country are open to the same objections as the votaries -of nature. However important each of these things may be in its own -place, it cannot properly be put in the supreme and central place for -the simple reason that it does not involve any adequate conversion -or discipline of man’s ordinary self to some ethical centre. I have -tried to show that the sense of solitude or forlornness that is so -striking a feature of romantic melancholy arises not only from a loss -of hold on the traditional centres, but also from the failure of -these new attempts at communion to keep their promises. The number of -discomfitures of this kind in the period that has elapsed since the -late eighteenth century, suggests that this period was even more than -most periods an age of sophistry. Every age has had its false teachers, -but possibly no age ever had so many dubious moralists as this, an -incomparable series of false prophets from Rousseau himself down to -Nietzsche and Tolstoy. It remains to sum up in a closing chapter the -results of my whole inquiry and at the same time to discuss somewhat -more specifically the bearing of my whole point of view, especially the -idea of work according to the human law, upon the present situation. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE PRESENT OUTLOOK - - -It has been my endeavor throughout this book to show that classic and -romantic art, though both at their best highly imaginative, differ in -the quality of the imagination. I pointed out in my first chapter that -in his recoil from the intellectual romanticism of the Renaissance -and the mediæval romanticism of actual adventure the neo-classicist -came to rest his literary faith on “reason” (by which he meant either -ordinary good sense or abstract reasoning), and then opposed this -reason or judgment to imagination. This supposed opposition between -reason and imagination was accepted by the romantic rebels against -neo-classicism and has been an endless source of confusion to the -present day. Though both neo-classicists and romanticists achieved much -admirable work, work which is likely to have a permanent appeal, it -is surely no small matter that they both failed on the whole to deal -adequately with the imagination and its rôle whether in literature -or life. Thus Dryden attributes the immortality of the Æneid to its -being “a well-weighed judicious poem. Whereas poems which are produced -by the vigor of imagination only have a gloss upon them at the first -which time wears off, the works of judgment are like the diamond; the -more they are polished, the more lustre they receive.”[292] Read on -and you will find that Dryden thus stresses judgment by way of protest -against the Cavalier Marini and the imaginative unrestraint that he -and other intellectual romanticists display. Dryden thus obscures the -fact that what gives the immortalizing touch to the Æneid is not mere -judgment but imagination--a certain quality of imagination. Even the -reader who is to enter properly into the spirit of Virgil needs more -than judgment--he needs to possess in some measure the same quality -of imagination. The romantic answer to the neo-classic distrust of -the imagination was the apotheosis of the imagination, but without -sufficient discrimination as to its quality, and this led only too -often to an anarchy of the imagination--an anarchy associated, as we -have seen, in the case of the Rousseauist, with emotion rather than -with thought or action. - -The modern world has thus tended to oscillate between extremes in its -attitude towards the imagination, so that we still have to turn to -ancient Greece for the best examples of works in which the imagination -is at once disciplined and supreme. Aristotle, I pointed out, is doing -little more than give an account of this Greek practice when he says -that the poet ranks higher than the historian because he achieves a -more general truth, but that he can achieve this more general truth -only by being a master of illusion. Art in which the illusion is not -disciplined to the higher reality counts at best on the recreative -side of life. “Imagination,” says Poe, “feeling herself for once -unshackled, roamed at will among the ever-changing wonders of a shadowy -and unstable land.”[293] To take seriously the creations of this type -of imagination is to be on the way towards madness. Every madhouse, -indeed, has inmates who are very imaginative in the fashion Poe here -describes. We must not confuse the concentric or ethical with the -eccentric imagination if we are to define rightly the terms classic -and romantic or indeed to attain to sound criticism at all. My whole -aim has been to show that a main stream of emotional sophistry that -takes its rise in the eighteenth century and flows down through the -nineteenth involves just such a confusion. - -The general distinction between the two types of imagination would seem -sufficiently clear. To apply the distinction concretely is, it must be -admitted, a task infinitely difficult and delicate, a task that calls -for the utmost degree of the _esprit de finesse_. In any particular -case there enters an element of vital novelty. The relation of this -vital novelty to the ethical or permanent element in life is something -that cannot be determined by any process of abstract reasoning or by -any rule of thumb; it is a matter of immediate perception. The art of -the critic is thus hedged about with peculiar difficulties. It does not -follow that Aristotle himself because he has laid down sound principles -in his Poetics, would always have been right in applying them. Our -evidence on this point is as a matter of fact somewhat scanty. - -Having thus admitted the difficulty of the undertaking we may ourselves -attempt a few concrete illustrations of how sound critical standards -tended to suffer in connection with the romantic movement. Leaving -aside for the moment certain larger aspects of the ethical imagination -that I am going to discuss presently, let us confine ourselves to -poetry. Inasmuch as the ethical imagination does not in itself give -poetry but wisdom, various cases may evidently arise: a man may be wise -without being poetical; he may be poetical without being wise; he may -be both wise and poetical. - -We may take as an example of the person who was wise without being -poetical Dr. Johnson. Though most persons would grant that Dr. Johnson -was not poetical, it is well to remember that this generalization has -only the approximate truth that a literary generalization can have. The -lines on Levet have been inserted and rightly in anthologies. If not on -the whole poetical, Johnson was, as Boswell says, eminently fitted to -be a “majestic teacher of moral and religious wisdom.” Few men have had -a firmer grasp on the moral law or been freer from the various forms of -sophistry that tend to obscure it. Unlike Socrates, however, of whom he -reminds us at times by his ethical realism, Johnson rests his insight -not on a positive but on a traditional basis. To say that Johnson -was truly religious is only another way of saying that he was truly -humble, and one of the reasons for his humility was his perception -of the ease with which illusion in man passes over into delusion, -and even into madness. His chapter on the “Dangerous Prevalence of -Imagination” in “Rasselas” not only gives the key to that work but to -much else in his writings. What he opposes to this dangerous prevalence -of imagination is not a different type of imagination but the usual -neo-classical reason or judgment or “sober probability.” His defence -of wisdom against the gathering naturalistic sophistries of his time -is therefore somewhat lacking in imaginative prestige. He seemed to -be opposing innovation on purely formalistic and traditional grounds -in an age which was more and more resolutely untraditional and which -was determined above all to emancipate the imagination from its -strait-jacket of formalism. Keats would not have hesitated to rank -Johnson among those who “blasphemed the bright Lyrist to his face.” - -Keats himself may serve as a type of the new imaginative spontaneity -and of the new fullness and freshness of sensuous perception. If -Johnson is wise without being poetical, Keats is poetical without being -wise, and here again we need to remember that distinctions of this -kind are only approximately true. Keats has written lines that have -high seriousness. He has written other lines which without being wise -seem to lay claim to wisdom--notably the lines in which, following -Shaftesbury and other æsthetes, he identifies truth and beauty; an -identification that was disproved for practical purposes at least as -far back as the Trojan War. Helen was beautiful, but was neither good -nor true. In general, however, Keats’s poetry is not sophistical. It -is simply delightfully recreative. There are signs that Keats himself -would not have been content in the long run with a purely recreative -rôle--to be “the idle singer of an empty day.” Whether he would ever -have achieved genuine ethical purpose is a question. In working out a -wise view of life he did not, like Dante, have the support of a great -and generally accepted tradition. It is not certain again that he would -ever have developed the critical keenness that enabled a Sophocles to -work out a wise view of life in a less traditional age than that of -Dante. The evidence is rather that Keats would have succumbed, to his -own poetical detriment, to some of the forms of sham wisdom current in -his day, especially the new humanitarian evangel.[294] - -In any case we may contrast Sophocles and Dante with Keats as examples -of poets who were not merely poetical but wise--wise in the relative -and imperfect sense in which it is vouchsafed to mortals to achieve -wisdom. Sophocles and Dante are not perhaps more poetical than -Keats--it is not easy to be more poetical than Keats. As Tennyson says, -“there is something magic and of the innermost soul of poetry in almost -everything he wrote.” Yet Sophocles and Dante are not only superior -to Keats, but in virtue of the presence of the ethical imagination in -their work, superior not merely in degree but in kind. Not that even -Sophocles and Dante maintain themselves uniformly on the level of -the ethical imagination. There are passages in Dante which are less -imaginative than theological. Passages of this kind are even more -numerous in Milton, a poet who on the whole is highly serious.[295] It -is in general easy to be didactic, hard to achieve ethical insight. - -If Keats is highly imaginative and poetic without on the whole rising -to high seriousness or sinking to sophistry, Shelley, on the other -hand, illustrates in his imaginative activity the confusion of values -that was so fostered by romanticism. Here again I do not wish to be too -absolute. Shelley has passages especially in his “Adonais” that are -on a high level. Yet nothing is more certain than that the quality of -his imagination is on the whole not ethical but Arcadian or pastoral. -In the name of his Arcadia conceived as the “ideal” he refuses to -face the facts of life. I have already spoken of the flimsiness of his -“Prometheus Unbound” as a solution of the problem of evil. What is -found in this play is the exact opposite of imaginative concentration -on the human law. The imagination wanders irresponsibly in a region -quite outside of normal human experience. We are hindered from enjoying -the gorgeous iridescences of Shelley’s cloudland by Shelley’s own -evident conviction that it is not a cloudland, an “intense inane,” but -a true empyrean of the spirit. And our irritation at Shelley’s own -confusion is further increased by the long train of his indiscreet -admirers. Thus Professor C.H. Herford writes in the “Cambridge History -of English Literature” that what Shelley has done in the “Prometheus -Unbound,” is to give “magnificent expression to the faith of Plato and -of Christ”![296] Such a statement in such a place is a veritable danger -signal, an indication of some grave spiritual bewilderment in the -present age. To show the inanity of these attempts to make a wise man -of Shelley it is enough to compare him not with Plato and Christ, but -with the poet whom he set out at once to continue and contradict--with -Æschylus. The “Prometheus Bound” has the informing ethical imagination -that the “Prometheus Unbound” lacks, and so in its total structure -belongs to an entirely different order of art. Shelley, indeed, has -admirable details. The romanticism of nympholeptic longing may almost -be said to culminate, at least in England, in the passage I have -already cited (“My soul is an enchanted boat”). There is no reason why -in recreative moods one should not imagine one’s soul an enchanted -boat and float away in a musical rapture with the ideal dream companion -towards Arcady. But to suppose that revery of this kind has anything to -do with the faith of Plato and of Christ, is to fall from illusion into -dangerous delusion. - -We may doubt whether if Shelley had lived longer he would ever have -risen above emotional sophistry and become more ethical in the quality -of his imagination. Such a progress from emotional sophistry to ethical -insight we actually find in Goethe; and this is the last and most -complex case we have to consider. Johnson, I have said, is wise without -being poetical and Keats poetical without being wise; Sophocles is -both poetical and wise, whereas Shelley is poetical, but with a taint -of sophistry or sham wisdom. No such clear-cut generalization can be -ventured about Goethe. I have already quoted Goethe’s own judgment -on his “Werther” as weakness seeking to give itself the prestige of -strength, and perhaps it would be possible to instance from his early -writings even worse examples of a morbid emotionalism (e.g. “Stella”). -How about “Faust” itself? Most Germans will simply dismiss such a -question as profane. With Hermann Grimm they are ready to pronounce -“Faust” the greatest work of the greatest poet of all times, and of -all peoples. Yet it is not easy to overlook the sophistical element -in both parts of “Faust.” I have already commented on those passages -that would seem especially sophistical: the passage in which the devil -is defined as the spirit that always says no strikes at the very root -of any proper distinction between good and evil. The passage again in -which Faust breaks down all precise discrimination in favor of mere -emotional intoxication is an extreme example of the Rousseauistic -art of “making madness beautiful.” The very conclusion of the whole -poem, with its setting up of work according to the natural law as a -substitute for work according to the human law, is an egregious piece -of sham wisdom. The result of work according to the human law, of -ethical efficiency in short, is an increasing serenity; and it is not -clear that Faust is much calmer at the end of the poem than he is at -the beginning. According to Dr. Santayana he is ready to carry into -heaven itself his romantic restlessness--his desperate and feverish -attempts to escape from ennui.[297] Perhaps this is not the whole truth -even in regard to “Faust”; and still less can we follow Dr. Santayana -when he seems to discover in the whole work of Goethe only romantic -restlessness. At the very time when Goethe was infecting others with -the wild expansiveness of the new movement, he himself was beginning -to strike out along an entirely different path. He writes in his -Journal as early as 1778: “A more definite feeling of limitation and -in consequence of true broadening.” Goethe here glimpses the truth -that lies at the base of both humanism and religion. He saw that the -romantic disease was the imaginative and emotional straining towards -the unlimited (_Hang zum Unbegrenzten_), and in opposition to this -unrestraint he was never tired of preaching the need of working within -boundaries. It may be objected that Goethe is in somewhat the same -case here as Rousseau: that the side of his work which has imaginative -and emotional driving power and has therefore moved the world is of an -entirely different order. We may reply that Goethe is at times both -poetical and wise. Furthermore in his maxims and conversations where -he does not rise to the poetical level, he displays a higher quality of -wisdom than Rousseau. At his best he shows an ethical realism worthy -of Dr. Johnson, though in his attitude towards tradition he is less -Johnsonian than Socratic. Like Socrates he saw on what terms a break -with the past may be safely attempted. “Anything that emancipates the -spirit,” he says, “without a corresponding growth in self-mastery, is -pernicious.” We may be sure that if the whole modern experiment fails -it will be because of the neglect of the truth contained in this maxim. -Goethe also saw that a sound individualism must be rightly imaginative. -He has occasional hints on the rôle of illusion in literature and life -that go far beneath the surface. - -Though the mature Goethe, then, always stands for salvation by work, -it is not strictly correct to say that it is work only according -to the natural law. In Goethe at his best the imagination accepts -the limitations imposed not merely by the natural, but also by the -human law. However, we must admit that the humanistic Goethe has had -few followers either in Germany or elsewhere, whereas innumerable -persons have escaped from the imaginative unrestraint of the emotional -romanticist, as Goethe himself likewise did, by the discipline of -science. - -The examples I have chosen should suffice to show how my distinction -between two main types of imagination--the ethical type that gives -high seriousness to creative writing and the Arcadian or dalliant -type that does not raise it above the recreative level--works out in -practice. Some such distinction is necessary if we are to understand -the imagination in its relation to the human law. But in order to -grasp the present situation firmly we need also to consider the -imagination in its relation to the natural law. I have just said that -most men have escaped from the imaginative anarchy of the emotional -romanticist through science. Now the man of science at his best is -like the humanist at his best, at once highly imaginative and highly -critical. By this coöperation of imagination and intellect they are -both enabled to concentrate effectively on the facts, though on facts -of a very different order. The imagination reaches out and perceives -likenesses and analogies whereas the power in man that separates -and discriminates and traces causes and effects tests in turn these -likenesses and analogies as to their reality: for we can scarcely -repeat too often that though the imagination gives unity it does not -give reality. If we were all Aristotles or even Goethes we might -concentrate imaginatively on both laws, and so be both scientific and -humanistic: but as a matter of fact the ordinary man’s capacity for -concentration is limited. After a spell of concentration on either law -he aspires to what Aristotle calls “relief from tension.” Now the very -conditions of modern life require an almost tyrannical concentration -on the natural law. The problems that have been engaging more and more -the attention of the Occident since the rise of the great Baconian -movement have been the problems of power and speed and utility. The -enormous mass of machinery that has been accumulated in the pursuit of -these ends requires the closest attention and concentration if it is -to be worked efficiently. At the same time the man of the West is not -willing to admit that he is growing in power alone, he likes to think -that he is growing also in wisdom. Only by keeping this situation in -mind can we hope to understand how emotional romanticism has been -able to develop into a vast system of sham spirituality. I have said -that the Rousseauist wants unity without reality. If we are to move -towards reality, the imagination must be controlled by the power -of discrimination and the Rousseauist has repudiated this power as -“false and secondary.” But a unity that lacks reality can scarcely be -accounted wise. The Baconian, however, accepts this unity gladly. He -has spent so much energy in working according to the natural law that -he has no energy left for work according to the human law. By turning -to the Rousseauist he can get the “relief from tension” that he needs -and at the same time enjoy the illusion of receiving a vast spiritual -illumination. Neither Rousseauist nor Baconian carry into the realm -of the human law the keen analysis that is necessary to distinguish -between genuine insight and some mere phantasmagoria of the emotions. -I am speaking especially, of course, of the interplay of Rousseauistic -and Baconian elements that appear in certain recent philosophies like -that of Bergson. According to Bergson one becomes spiritual by throwing -overboard both thought and action, and this is a very convenient notion -of spirituality for those who wish to devote both thought and action to -utilitarian and material ends. It is hard to see in Bergson’s intuition -of the creative flux and perception of real duration anything more -than the latest form of Rousseau’s transcendental idling. To work with -something approaching frenzy according to the natural law and to be -idle according to the human law must be accounted a rather one-sided -view of life. The price the man of to-day has paid for his increase -in power is, it should seem, an appalling superficiality in dealing -with the law of his own nature. What brings together Baconian and -Rousseauist in spite of their surface differences is that they are both -intent on the element of novelty. But if wonder is associated with the -Many, wisdom is associated with the One. Wisdom and wonder are moving -not in the same but in opposite directions. The nineteenth century may -very well prove to have been the most wonderful and the least wise -of centuries. The men of this period--and I am speaking of course of -the main drift--were so busy being wonderful that they had no time, -apparently, to be wise. Yet their extreme absorption in wonder and the -manifoldness of things can scarcely be commended unless it can be shown -that happiness also results from all this revelling in the element -of change. The Rousseauist is not quite consistent on this point. At -times he bids us boldly set our hearts on the transitory. _Aimez_, -says Vigny, _ce que jamais on ne verra deux fois_. But the Rousseauist -strikes perhaps a deeper chord when looking forth on a world of flux he -utters the anguished exclamation of Leconte de Lisle: _Qu’est-ce que -tout cela qui n’est pas éternel?_ Even as one swallow, says Aristotle, -does not make a spring, so no short time is enough to determine whether -a man deserves to be called happy. The weakness of the romantic pursuit -of novelty and wonder and in general of the philosophy of the beautiful -moment--whether the erotic moment[298] or the moment of cosmic -revery--is that it does not reckon sufficiently with the something -deep down in the human breast that craves the abiding. To pin one’s -hope of happiness to the fact that “the world is so full of a number of -things” is an appropriate sentiment for a “Child’s Garden of Verse.” -For the adult to maintain an exclusive Bergsonian interest in “the -perpetual gushing forth of novelties” would seem to betray an inability -to mature. The effect on a mature observer of an age so entirely turned -from the One to the Many as that in which we are living must be that of -a prodigious peripheral richness joined to a great central void. - -What leads the man of to-day to work with such energy according to -the natural law and to be idle according to the human law is his -intoxication with material success. A consideration that should -therefore touch him is that in the long run not merely spiritual -success or happiness, but material prosperity depend on an entirely -different working. Let me revert here for a moment to my previous -analysis: to work according to the human law is simply to rein in one’s -impulses. Now the strongest of all the impulses is the will to power. -The man who does not rein in his will to power and is at the same time -very active according to the natural law is in a fair way to become -an efficient megalomaniac. Efficient megalomania, whether developed -in individuals of the same group or in whole national groups in their -relations with one another, must lead sooner or later to war. The -efficient megalomaniacs will proceed to destroy one another along with -the material wealth to which they have sacrificed everything else; and -then the meek, if there are any meek left, will inherit the earth. - -“If I am to judge by myself,” said an eighteenth-century Frenchman, -“man is a stupid animal.” Man is not only a stupid animal in spite -of his conceit of his own cleverness but we are here at the source -of his stupidity. The source is the moral indolence that Buddha with -his almost infallible sagacity defined long ago. In spite of the fact -that his spiritual and in the long run his material success hinge on -his ethical effort, man persists in dodging this effort, in seeking to -follow the line of least or lesser resistance. An energetic material -working does not mend but aggravate the failure to work ethically and -is therefore especially stupid. Just this combination has in fact led -to the crowning stupidity of the ages--the Great War. No more delirious -spectacle has ever been witnessed than that of hundreds of millions -of human beings using a vast machinery of scientific efficiency to -turn life into a hell for one another. It is hard to avoid concluding -that we are living in a world that has gone wrong on first principles, -a world that, in spite of all the warnings of the past, has allowed -itself to be caught once more in the terrible naturalistic trap. The -dissolution of civilization with which we are threatened is likely to -be worse in some respects than that of Greece or Rome in view of the -success that has been attained in “perfecting the mystery of murder.” -Various traditional agencies are indeed still doing much to chain -up the beast in man. Of these the chief is no doubt the Church. But -the leadership of the Occident is no longer here. The leaders have -succumbed in greater or less degree to naturalism[299] and so have been -tampering with the moral law. That the brutal imperialist who brooks -no obstacle to his lust for dominion has been tampering with this law -goes without saying; but the humanitarian, all adrip with brotherhood -and profoundly convinced of the loveliness of his own soul, has been -tampering with it also, and in a more dangerous way for the very -reason that it is less obvious. This tampering with the moral law, or -what amounts to the same thing, this overriding of the veto power in -man, has been largely a result, though not a necessary result, of the -rupture with the traditional forms of wisdom. The Baconian naturalist -repudiated the past because he wished to be more positive and critical, -to plant himself upon the facts. Yet the veto power is itself a -fact,--the weightiest with which man has to reckon. The Rousseauistic -naturalist threw off traditional control because he wished to be more -imaginative. Yet without the veto power the imagination falls into -sheer anarchy. Both Baconian and Rousseauist were very impatient of -any outer authority that seemed to stand between them and their own -perceptions. Yet the veto power is nothing abstract, nothing that one -needs to take on hearsay, but is very immediate. The naturalistic -leaders may be proved wrong without going beyond their own principles, -and their wrongness is of a kind to wreck civilization. - -I have no quarrel, it is scarcely necessary to add, either with the man -of science or the romanticist when they keep in their proper place. -As soon however as they try, whether separately or in unison, to set -up some substitute for humanism or religion, they should be at once -attacked, the man of science for not being sufficiently positive and -critical, the romanticist for not being rightly imaginative. - -This brings us back to the problem of the ethical imagination--the -imagination that has accepted the veto power--which I promised a -moment ago to treat in its larger aspects. This problem is indeed -in a peculiar sense the problem of civilization itself. A curious -circumstance should be noted here: a civilization that rests on dogma -and outer authority cannot afford to face the whole truth about the -imagination and its rôle. A civilization in which dogma and outer -authority have been undermined by the critical spirit, not only can -but must do this very thing if it is to continue at all. Man, a being -ever changing and living in a world of change, is, as I said at the -outset, cut off from immediate access to anything abiding and therefore -worthy to be called real, and condemned to live in an element of -fiction or illusion. Yet civilization must rest on the recognition -of something abiding. It follows that the truths on the survival of -which civilization depends cannot be conveyed to man directly but -only through imaginative symbols. It seems hard, however, for man to -analyze critically this disability under which he labors, and, facing -courageously the results of his analysis, to submit his imagination -to the necessary control. He consents to limit his expansive desires -only when the truths that are symbolically true are presented to him as -literally true. The salutary check upon his imagination is thus won at -the expense of the critical spirit. The pure gold of faith needs, it -should seem, if it is to gain currency, to be alloyed with credulity. -But the civilization that results from humanistic or religious control -tends to produce the critical spirit. Sooner or later some Voltaire -utters his fatal message: - - _Les prêtres ne sont pas ce qu’un vain peuple pense;_ - _Nôtre crédulité fait toute leur science._ - -The emancipation from credulous belief leads to an anarchic -individualism that tends in turn to destroy civilization. There is some -evidence in the past that it is not quite necessary to run through this -cycle. Buddha, for example, was very critical; he had a sense of the -flux and evanescence of all things and so of universal illusion keener -by far than that of Anatole France; at the same time he had ethical -standards even sterner than those of Dr. Johnson. This is a combination -that the Occident has rarely seen and that it perhaps needs to see. At -the very end of his life Buddha uttered words that deserve to be the -Magna Charta of the true individualist: “Therefore, O Ananda, be ye -lamps unto yourselves. Be ye refuges unto yourselves. Look to no outer -refuge. Hold fast as a refuge unto the Law (_Dhamma_).”[300] A man may -safely go into himself if what he finds there is not, like Rousseau, -his own emotions, but like Buddha, the law of righteousness. - -Men were induced to follow Rousseau in his surrender to the emotions, -it will be remembered, because that seemed the only alternative to a -hard and dry rationalism. The rationalists of the Enlightenment were -for the most part Cartesians, but Kant himself is in his main trend a -rationalist. The epithet critical usually applied to his philosophy is -therefore a misnomer. For to solve the critical problem--the relation -between appearance and reality--it is necessary to deal adequately with -the rôle of the imagination and this Kant has quite failed to do.[301] -Modern philosophy is in general so unsatisfactory because it has raised -the critical problem without carrying it through; it is too critical -to receive wisdom through the traditional channels and not critical -enough to achieve insight, and so has been losing more and more its -human relevancy, becoming in the words of one of its recent votaries, -a “narrow and unfruitful eccentricity.” The professional philosophers -need to mend their ways and that speedily if the great world is not -to pass them disdainfully by and leave them to play their mysterious -little game among themselves. We see one of the most recent groups, the -new realists, flat on their faces before the man of science--surely an -undignified attitude for a philosopher. It is possible to look on the -kind of knowledge that science gives as alone real only by dodging the -critical problem--the problem as to the trustworthiness of the human -instrument through which all knowledge is received--and it would be -easy to show, if this were the place to go into the more technical -aspects of the question, that the new realists have been doing just -this--whether through sheer naïveté or metaphysical despair I am unable -to say. The truly critical observer is unable to discover anything -real in the absolute sense since everything is mixed with illusion. -In this absolute sense the man of science must ever be ignorant of -the reality behind the shows of nature. The new realist is, however, -justified relatively in thinking that the only thing real in the view -of life that has prevailed of late has been its working according to -the natural law and the fruits of this working. The self-deception -begins when he assumes that there can be no other working. What I have -myself been opposing to naturalistic excess, such as appears in the -new realism, is insight; but insight is in itself only a word, and -unless it can be shown to have its own working and its own fruits, -entirely different from those of work according to the natural law, the -positivist at all events will have none of it. - -The positivist will not only insist upon fruits, but will rate -these fruits themselves according to their bearing upon his main -purpose. Life, says Bergson, can have no purpose in the human sense -of the word.[302] The positivist will reply to Bergson and to the -Rousseauistic drifter in general, in the words of Aristotle, that the -end is the chief thing of all and that the end of ends is happiness. To -the Baconian who wants work and purpose but according to the natural -law alone, the complete positivist will reply that happiness cannot be -shown to result from this one-sided working; that in itself it affords -no escape from the misery of moral solitude, that we move towards true -communion and so towards peace and happiness only by work according -to the human law. Now the more individualistic we are, I have been -saying, the more we must depend for the apprehension of this law on -the imagination, the imagination, let me hasten to add, supplemented -by the intellect. It is not enough to put the brakes on the natural -man--and that is what work according to the human law means--we must -do it intelligently. Right knowing must here as elsewhere precede -right doing. Even a Buddha admitted that at one period in his life -he had not been intelligent in his self-discipline. I need only to -amplify here what I have said in a previous chapter about the proper -use of the “false secondary power” by those who wish to be either -religious or humanistic in a positive fashion. They will employ their -analytical faculties, not in building up some abstract system, but in -discriminating between the actual data of experience with a view to -happiness, just as the man of science at his best employs the same -faculties in discriminating between the data of experience with a view -to power and utility. - -I have pointed out another important use of the analytical intellect in -its relation to the imagination. Since the imagination by itself gives -unity but does not give reality, it is possible to discover whether a -unification of life has reality only by subjecting it to the keenest -analysis. Otherwise what we take to be wisdom may turn out to be only -an empty dream. To take as wise something that is unreal is to fall -into sophistry. For a man like Rousseau whose imagination was in its -ultimate quality not ethical at all but overwhelmingly idyllic to set -up as an inspired teacher was to become an arch-sophist. Whether or not -he was sincere in his sophistry is a question which the emotionalist -is very fond of discussing, but which the sensible person will dismiss -as somewhat secondary. Sophistry of all kinds always has a powerful -ally in man’s moral indolence. It is so pleasant to let one’s self go -and at the same time deem one’s self on the way to wisdom. We need to -keep in mind the special quality of Rousseau’s sophistry if we wish to -understand a very extraordinary circumstance during the past century. -During this period men were moving steadily towards the naturalistic -level, where the law of cunning and the law of force prevail, and -at the same time had the illusion--or at least multitudes had the -illusion--that they were moving towards peace and brotherhood. The -explanation is found in the endless tricks played upon the uncritical -and still more upon the half-critical by the Arcadian imagination. - -The remedy is not only a more stringent criticism, but, as I have -tried to make plain in this whole work, in an age of sophistry, like -the present, criticism itself amounts largely to that art of inductive -defining which it is the great merit of Socrates, according to -Aristotle,[303] to have devised and brought to perfection. Sophistry -flourishes, as Socrates saw, on the confused and ambiguous use of -general terms; and there is an inexhaustible source of such ambiguities -and confusions in the very duality of human nature. The word nature -itself may serve as an illustration. We may take as a closely allied -example the word progress. Man may progress according to either the -human or the natural law. Progress according to the natural law has -been so rapid since the rise of the Baconian movement that it has -quite captivated man’s imagination and stimulated him to still further -concentration and effort along naturalistic lines. The very magic -of the word progress seems to blind him to the failure to progress -according to the human law. The more a word refers to what is above the -strictly material level, the more it is subject to the imagination and -therefore to sophistication. It is not easy to sophisticate the word -horse, it is only too easy to sophisticate the word justice. One may -affirm, indeed, not only that man is governed by his imagination but -that in all that belongs to his own special domain _the imagination -itself is governed by words_.[304] - -We should not therefore surrender our imaginations to a general term -until it has been carefully defined, and to define it carefully we -need usually to practice upon it what Socrates would call a dichotomy. -I have just been dichotomizing or “cutting in two” the word progress. -When the two main types of progress, material and moral, have been -discriminated in their fruits, the positivist will proceed to rate -these fruits according to their relevancy to his main goal--the goal -of happiness. The person who is thus fortified by a Socratic dialectic -will be less ready to surrender his imagination to the first sophist -who urges him to be “progressive.” He will wish to make sure first that -he is not progressing towards the edge of a precipice. - -Rousseau would have us get rid of analysis in favor of the “heart.” -No small part of my endeavor in this work and elsewhere has been to -show the different meanings that may attach to the term heart (and the -closely allied terms “soul” and “intuition”)--meanings that are a world -apart, when tested by their fruits. Heart may refer to outer perception -and the emotional self or to inner perception and the ethical self. The -heart of Pascal is not the heart of Rousseau. With this distinction -once obliterated the way is open for the Rousseauistic corruption of -such words as virtue and conscience, and this is to fling wide the door -to every manner of confusion. The whole vocabulary that is properly -applicable only to the supersensuous realm is then transferred to the -region of the subrational. The impulsive self proceeds to cover its -nakedness with all these fair phrases as it would with a garment. A -recent student of war-time psychology asks: “Is it that the natural -man in us has been masquerading as the spiritual man by hiding himself -under splendid words--courage, patriotism, justice--and now he rises up -and glares at us with blood-red eyes?” That is precisely what has been -happening. - -But after all the heart in any sense of the word is controlled by -the imagination, so that a still more fundamental dichotomy, perhaps -the most fundamental of all, is that of the imagination itself. We -have seen how often the Arcadian dreaming of the emotional naturalist -has been labelled the “ideal.” Our views of this type of imagination -will therefore determine our views of much that now passes current -as idealism. Now the term idealist may have a sound meaning: it may -designate the man who is realistic according to the human law. But -to be an idealist in Shelley’s sense or that of innumerable other -Rousseauists is to fall into sheer unreality. This type of idealist -shrinks from the sharp discriminations of the critic: they are like -the descent of a douche of ice-water upon his hot illusions. But it -is pleasanter, after all, to be awakened by a douche of ice-water -than by an explosion of dynamite under the bed; and that has been the -frequent fate of the romantic idealist. It is scarcely safe to neglect -any important aspect of reality in favor of one’s private dream, even -if this dream be dubbed the ideal. The aspect of reality that one is -seeking to exclude finally comes crashing through the walls of the -ivory tower and abolishes the dream and at times the dreamer. - -The transformation of the Arcadian dreamer into the Utopist is a -veritable menace to civilization. The ends that the Utopist proposes -are often in themselves desirable and the evils that he denounces are -real. But when we come to scrutinize critically his means, what we -find is not a firm grip on the ascertained facts of human nature but -what Bagehot calls the feeble idealities of the romantic imagination. -Moreover various Utopists may come together as to what they wish to -destroy, which is likely to include the whole existing social order; -but what they wish to erect on the ruins of this order will be found -to be not only in dreamland, but in different dreamlands. For with the -elimination of the veto power from personality--the only power that can -pull men back to some common centre--the ideal will amount to little -more than the projection of this or that man’s temperament upon the -void. In a purely temperamental world an affirmative reply may be given -to the question of Euryalus in Virgil: “Is each man’s God but his own -fell desire?” (_An sua cuique deus fit dira cupido?_) - -The task of the Socratic critic at the present time is, then, seen -to consist largely in stripping idealistic disguises from egoism, in -exposing what I have called sham spirituality. If the word spirituality -means anything, it must imply, it should seem, some degree of escape -from the ordinary self, an escape that calls in turn for effort -according to the human law. Even when he is not an open and avowed -advocate of a “wise passiveness,” the Rousseauistic idealist is only -too manifestly not making any such effort--it would interfere with his -passion for self-expression which is even more deeply rooted in him -than his passion for saving society. He inclines like Rousseau to -look upon every constraint[305] whether from within or from without -as incompatible with liberty. A right definition of liberty is almost -as important as a right definition of imagination and derives from -it very directly. Where in our anarchical age will such a definition -be found, a definition that is at once modern and in accord with the -psychological facts? “A man has only to declare himself free,” says -Goethe, “and he will at once feel himself dependent. If he ventures to -declare himself dependent, he will feel himself free.” In other words -he is not free to do whatever he pleases unless he wishes to enjoy the -freedom of the lunatic, but only to adjust himself to the reality of -either the natural or the human law. A progressive adjustment to the -human law gives ethical efficiency, and this is the proper corrective -of material efficiency, and not love alone as the sentimentalist is so -fond of preaching. Love is another word that cries aloud for Socratic -treatment. - -A liberty that means only emancipation from outer control will result, -I have tried to show, in the most dangerous form of anarchy--anarchy -of the imagination. On the degree of our perception of this fact will -hinge the soundness of our use of another general term--democracy. -We should beware above all of surrendering our imaginations to this -word until it has been hedged about on every side with discriminations -that have behind them all the experience of the past with this form -of government. Only in this way may the democrat know whether he is -aiming at anything real or merely dreaming of the golden age. Here as -elsewhere there are pitfalls manifold for the uncritical enthusiast. A -democracy that produces in sufficient numbers sound individualists who -look up imaginatively to standards set above their ordinary selves, may -well deserve enthusiasm. A democracy, on the other hand, that is not -rightly imaginative, but is impelled by vague emotional intoxications, -may mean all kinds of lovely things in dreamland, but in the real world -it will prove an especially unpleasant way of returning to barbarism. -It is a bad sign that Rousseau, who is more than any other one person -the father of radical democracy, is also the first of the great -anti-intellectualists. - -Enough has been said to show the proper rôle of the secondary power -of analysis that the Rousseauist looks upon with so much disfavor. It -is the necessary auxiliary of the art of defining that can alone save -us in an untraditional age from receiving some mere phantasmagoria of -the intellect or emotions as a radiant idealism. A Socratic dialectic -of this kind is needed at such a time not only to dissipate sophistry -but as a positive support to wisdom. I have raised the question in -my Introduction whether the wisdom that is needed just now should be -primarily humanistic or religious. The preference I have expressed -for a positive and critical humanism I wish to be regarded as very -tentative. In the dark situation that is growing up in the Occident, -all genuine humanism and religion, whether on a traditional or a -critical basis, should be welcome. I have pointed out that traditional -humanism and religion conflict in certain respects, that it is -difficult to combine the imitation of Horace with the imitation of -Christ. This problem does not disappear entirely when humanism and -religion are dealt with critically and is indeed one of the most -obscure that the thinker has to face. The honest thinker, whatever his -own preference, must begin by admitting that though religion can get -along without humanism, humanism cannot get along without religion. -The reason has been given by Burke in pointing out the radical defect -of Rousseau: the whole ethical life of man has its root in humility. -As humility diminishes, conceit or vain imagining rushes in almost -automatically to take its place. Under these circumstances decorum, the -supreme virtue of the humanist, is in danger of degenerating into some -art of going through the motions. Such was only too often the decorum -of the French drawing-room, and such we are told, has frequently been -the decorum of the Chinese humanist. Yet the decorum of Confucius -himself was not only genuine but he has put the case for the humanist -with his usual shrewdness. “I venture to ask about death,” one of his -disciples said to him. “While you do not know life,” Confucius replied, -“how can you know about death?”[306] - -The solution of this problem as to the relation between humanism and -religion, so far as a solution can be found, lies in looking upon them -both as only different stages in the same path. Humanism should have -in it an element of religious insight: it is possible to be a humble -and meditative humanist. The type of the man of the world who is not -a mere worldling is not only attractive in itself but has actually -been achieved in the West, though not perhaps very often, from the -Greeks down. Chinese who should be in a position to know affirm again -that, alongside many corrupt mandarins, a certain number of true -Confucians[307] have been scattered through the centuries from the time -of the sage to the present. - -If humanism may be religious, religion may have its humanistic side. I -have said, following Aristotle, that the law of measure does not apply -to the religious life, but this saying is not to be understood in an -absolute sense. Buddha is continually insisting on the middle path in -the religious life itself. The resulting urbanity in Buddha and his -early followers in India is perhaps the closest approach that that very -unhumanistic land has ever made to humanism. - -It is right here in this joining of humanism and religion that -Aristotle, at least the Aristotle that has come down to us, does not -seem altogether adequate. He fails to bring out sufficiently the -bond between the meditative or religious life that he describes at -the end of his “Ethics” and the humanistic life or life of mediation -to which most of this work is devoted. An eminent French authority -on Aristotle,[308] complains that this separation of the two lives -encouraged the ascetic excess of the Middle Ages, the undue spurning -of the world in favor of mystic contemplation. I am struck rather -by the danger of leaving the humanistic life without any support in -religion. In a celebrated passage,[309] Aristotle says that the -“magnanimous” man or ideal gentleman sees all things including himself -proportionately: he puts himself neither too high nor too low. And -this is no doubt true so far as other men are concerned. But does the -magnanimous man put human nature itself in its proper place? Does he -feel sufficiently its nothingness and helplessness, its dependence on -a higher power? No one, indeed, who gets beyond words and outer forms -would maintain that humility is a Christian monopoly. Pindar is far -more humble[310] than Aristotle, as humble, one might almost maintain, -as the austere Christian. - -A humanism sufficiently grounded in humility is not only desirable -at all times but there are reasons for thinking that it would be -especially desirable to-day. In the first place, it would so far as -the emotional naturalist is concerned raise a clear-cut issue. The -naturalist of this type denies rather than corrupts humanism. He is the -foe of compromise and inclines to identify mediation and mediocrity. -On the other hand, he corrupts rather than denies religion, turning -meditation into pantheistic revery and in general setting up a subtle -parody of what is above the ordinary rational level in terms of the -subrational. On their own showing Rousseau and his followers are -extremists,[311] and even more effective perhaps than to attack them -directly for their sham religion would be to maintain against them that -thus to violate the law of measure is to cease to be human. - -Furthermore, a critical humanism would appear to be the proper -corrective of the other main forms of naturalistic excess at the -present time--the one-sided devotion to physical science. What keeps -the man of science from being himself a humanist is not his science but -his pseudo-science, and also the secret push for power and prestige -that he shares with other men. The reasons for putting humanistic -truth above scientific truth are not metaphysical but very practical: -the discipline that helps a man to self-mastery is found to have a -more important bearing on his happiness than the discipline that helps -him to a mastery of physical nature. If scientific discipline is not -supplemented by a truly humanistic or religious discipline the result -is unethical science, and unethical science is perhaps the worst -monster that has yet been turned loose on the race. Man in spite of -what I have termed his stupidity, his persistent evasion of the main -issue, the issue of his own happiness, will awaken sooner or later -to the fearful evil he has already suffered from a science that has -arrogated to itself what does not properly belong to it; and then -science may be as unduly depreciated as it has, for the past century -or two, been unduly magnified; so that in the long run it is in the -interest of science itself to keep in its proper place, which is below -both humanism and religion. - -It would be possible to frame in the name of insight an indictment -against science that would make the indictment Rousseau has framed -against it in the name of instinct seem mild. The critical humanist, -however, will leave it to others to frame such an indictment. Nothing -is more foreign to his nature than every form of obscurantism. He -is ready indeed to point out that the man of science has in common -with him at least one important idea--the idea of habit, though its -scientific form seems to him very incomplete. One may illustrate from -perhaps the best known recent treatment of the subject, that of James -in his “Psychology.” It is equally significant that the humanist can -agree with nearly every line of James’s chapter on habit and that -he disagrees very gravely with James in his total tendency. That is -because James shows himself, as soon as he passes from the naturalistic -to the humanistic level, wildly romantic. Even when dealing with the -“Varieties of Religious Experience” he is plainly more preoccupied -with the intensity than with the centrality of this experience.[312] -He is obsessed with the idea that comes down to him straight from the -age of original genius that to be at the centre is to be commonplace. -In a letter to C. E. Norton (June 30, 1904) James praises Ruskin’s -Letters and adds: “Mere sanity is the most philistine and at bottom -unessential of a man’s attributes.” “Mere sanity” is not to be thus -dismissed, because to lack sanity is to be headed towards misery and -even madness. “Ruskin’s,” says Norton, who was in a position to know, -“was essentially one of the saddest of lives.”[313] Is a man to live -one of the saddest of lives merely to gratify romantic lovers of the -vivid and picturesque like James? - -However, if the man of science holds fast to the results reached by -James and others regarding habit and at the same time avoids James’s -romantic fallacies he might perceive the possibility of extending the -idea of habit beyond the naturalistic level; and the way would then -be open for an important coöperation between him and the humanist. -Humanists themselves, it must be admitted, even critical humanists, -have diverged somewhat in their attitude towards habit, and that from -the time of Socrates and Aristotle. I have been dwelling thus far on -the indispensableness of a keen Socratic dialectic and of the right -knowledge it brings for those who aspire to be critical humanists. -But does right knowing in itself suffice to ensure right doing? -Socrates and Plato with their famous identification of knowledge and -virtue would seem to reply in the affirmative. Aristotle has the -immediate testimony of consciousness on his side when he remarks -simply regarding this identification: The facts are otherwise.[314] -No experience is sadder or more universal than that of the failure -of right knowledge to secure right performance: so much so that the -austere Christian has been able to maintain with some plausibility -that all the knowledge in the world is of no avail without a special -divine succor. Now the Aristotelian agrees with the Christian that mere -knowledge is insufficient: conversion is also necessary. He does not -incline, however, like the austere Christian to look for conversion to -“thunderclaps and visible upsets of grace.” Without denying necessarily -these pistol-shot transformations of human nature he conceives of -man’s turning away from his ordinary self--and here he is much nearer -in temper to the man of science--as a gradual process. This gradual -conversion the Aristotelian hopes to achieve by work according to -the human law. Now right knowledge though it supplies the norm, is -not in itself this working, which consists in the actual pulling back -of impulse. But an act of this kind to be effective must be repeated. -A habit is thus formed until at last the new direction given to the -natural man becomes automatic and unconscious. The humanistic worker -may thus acquire at last the spontaneity in right doing that the -beautiful soul professes to have received as a free gift from “nature.” -Confucius narrates the various stages of knowledge and moral effort -through which he had passed from the age of fifteen and concludes: “At -seventy I could follow what my heart desired without transgressing the -law of measure.”[315] - -The keener the observer the more likely he is to be struck by the -empire of habit. Habit, as Wellington said, is ten times nature, and -is indeed so obviously a second nature that many of the wise have -suspected that nature herself is only a first habit.[316] Now Aristotle -who is open to criticism, it may be, on the side of humility, still -remains incomparable among the philosophers of the world for his -treatment of habit on the humanistic level. Any one who wishes to learn -how to become moderate and sensible and decent can do no better even at -this late day than to steep himself in the “Nicomachean Ethics.” - -One of the ultimate contrasts that presents itself in a subject of -this kind is that between habit as conceived by Aristotle and nature -as conceived by Rousseau. The first great grievance of the critical -humanist against Rousseau is that he set out to be an individualist -and at the same time attacked analysis, which is indispensable if -one is to be a sound individualist. The second great grievance of the -humanist is that Rousseau sought to discredit habit which is necessary -if right analysis is to be made effective. “The only habit the child -should be allowed to form,” says Rousseau, “is that of forming no -habit.”[317] How else is the child to follow his bent or genius and -so arrive at full self-expression? The point I am bringing up is of -the utmost gravity, for Rousseau is by common consent the father of -modern education. To eliminate from education the idea of a progressive -adjustment to a human law, quite apart from temperament, may be to -imperil civilization itself. For civilization (another word that is -sadly in need of Socratic defining) may be found to consist above all -in an orderly transmission of right habits; and the chief agency for -securing such a transmission must always be education, by which I mean -far more of course than mere formal schooling. - -Rousseau’s repudiation of habit is first of all, it should be pointed -out, perfectly chimerical. The trait of the child to which the sensible -educator will give chief attention is not his spontaneity, but his -proneness to imitate. In the absence of good models the child will -imitate bad ones, and so, long before the age of intelligent choice and -self-determination, become the prisoner of bad habits. Men, therefore, -who aim at being civilized must come together, work out a convention -in short, regarding the habits they wish transmitted to the young. -A great civilization is in a sense only a great convention. A sane -individualist does not wish to escape from convention in itself; -he merely remembers that no convention is final--that it is always -possible to improve the quality of the convention in the midst of which -he is living, and that it should therefore be held flexibly. He would -oppose no obstacles to those who are rising above the conventional -level, but would resist firmly those who are sinking beneath it. It -is much easier to determine practically whether one has to do with an -ascent or a descent (even though the descent be rapturous like that -of the Rousseauist) than our anarchical individualists are willing to -acknowledge. - -The notion that in spite of the enormous mass of experience that has -been accumulated in both East and West we are still without light as -to the habits that make for moderation and good sense and decency, and -that education is therefore still purely a matter of exploration and -experiment is one that may be left to those who are suffering from an -advanced stage of naturalistic intoxication--for example, to Professor -John Dewey and his followers. From an ethical point of view a child has -the right to be born into a cosmos, and not, as is coming to be more -and more the case under such influences, pitch-forked into chaos. But -the educational radical, it may be replied, does stress the idea of -habit; and it is true that he would have the young acquire the habits -that make for material efficiency. This, however, does not go beyond -Rousseau who came out very strongly for what we should call nowadays -vocational training.[318] It is the adjustment to the human law against -which Rousseau and all the Rousseauists are recalcitrant. - -Self-expression and vocational training combined in various -proportions and tempered by the spirit of “service,” are nearly the -whole of the new education. But I have already said that it is not -possible to extract from any such compounding of utilitarian and -romantic elements, with the resulting material efficiency and ethical -inefficiency, a civilized view of life. It is right here indeed in -the educational field that concerted opposition to the naturalistic -conspiracy against civilization is most likely to be fruitful. If -the present generation--and I have in mind especially American -conditions--cannot come to a working agreement about the ethical -training it wishes given the young, if it allows the drift towards -anarchy on the human level to continue, it will show itself, however -ecstatic it may be over its own progressiveness and idealism, both -cowardly and degenerate. It is very stupid, assuming that it is not -very hypocritical, to denounce _Kultur_, and then to adopt educational -ideas that work out in much the same fashion as _Kultur_, and have -indeed the same historical derivation. - -The dehumanizing influences I have been tracing are especially to be -deprecated in higher education. The design of higher education, so far -as it deserves the name, is to produce leaders, and on the quality of -the leadership must depend more than on any other single factor the -success or failure of democracy. I have already quoted Aristotle’s -saying that “most men would rather live in a disorderly than in a -sober manner.” This does not mean much more than that most men would -like to live temperamentally, to follow each his own bent and then -put the best face on the matter possible. Most men, says Goethe in a -similar vein, prefer error to truth because truth imposes limitations -and error does not. It is well also to recall Aristotle’s saying that -“the multitude is incapable of making distinctions.”[319] Now my whole -argument is that to be sound individualists we must not only make the -right distinctions but submit to them until they become habitual. -Does it follow that the whole experiment in which we are engaged is -foredoomed to failure? Not quite--though the obstacles to success are -somewhat greater than our democratic enthusiasts suspect. The most -disreputable aspect of human nature, I have said, is its proneness to -look for scapegoats; and my chief objection to the movement I have -been studying is that more perhaps than any other in history it has -encouraged the evasion of moral responsibility and the setting up of -scapegoats. But as an offset to this disreputable aspect of man, one -may note a creditable trait: he is very sensitive to the force of a -right example. If the leaders of a community look up to a sound model -and work humanistically with reference to it, all the evidence goes to -show that they will be looked up to and imitated in turn by enough of -the rank and file to keep that community from lapsing into barbarism. -Societies always decay from the top. It is therefore not enough, as -the humanitarian would have us believe, that our leaders should act -vigorously on the outer world and at the same time be filled with the -spirit of “service.” Purely expansive leaders of this kind we have -seen who have the word humanity always on their lips and are at the -same time ceasing to be human. “That wherein the superior man cannot -be equalled,” says Confucius, “is simply this--his work which other -men cannot see.”[320] It is this inner work and the habits that result -from it that above all humanize a man and make him exemplary to the -multitude. To perform this work he needs to look to a centre and a -model. - -We are brought back here to the final gap that opens between classicist -and romanticist. To look to a centre according to the romanticist -is at the best to display “reason,” at the worst to be smug and -philistine. To look to a true centre is, on the contrary, according -to the classicist, to grasp the abiding human element through all the -change in which it is implicated, and this calls for the highest use -of the imagination. The abiding human element exists, even though it -cannot be exhausted by dogmas and creeds, is not subject to rules and -refuses to be locked up in formulæ. A knowledge of it results from -experience,--experience vivified by the imagination. To do justice to -writing which has this note of centrality we ourselves need to be in -some measure experienced and imaginative. Writing that is romantic, -writing in which the imagination is not disciplined to a true centre -is best enjoyed while we are young. The person who is as much taken by -Shelley at forty as he was at twenty has, one may surmise, failed to -grow up. Shelley himself wrote to John Gisborne (October 22, 1821): “As -to real flesh and blood, you know that I do not deal in those articles; -you might as well go to a ginshop for a leg of mutton as expect -anything human or earthly from me.” The mature man is likely to be -dissatisfied with poetry so unsubstantial as this even as an intoxicant -and still more when it is offered to him as the “ideal.” The very mark -of genuinely classical work, on the other hand, is that it yields its -full meaning only to the mature. Young and old are, as Cardinal Newman -says, affected very differently by the words of some classic author, -such as Homer or Horace. “Passages, which to a boy are but rhetorical -commonplaces, neither better nor worse than a hundred others which any -clever writer might supply … at length come home to him, when long -years have passed, and he has had experience of life, and pierce him, -as if he had never before known them, with their sad earnestness and -vivid exactness. Then he comes to understand how it is that lines, the -birth of some chance morning or evening at an Ionian festival or among -the Sabine hills, have lasted generation after generation for thousands -of years, with a power over the mind and a charm which the current -literature of his own day, with all its obvious advantages, is utterly -unable to rival.” - -In the poets whom Newman praises the imagination is, as it were, -centripetal. The neo-classic proneness to oppose good sense to -imagination, and the romantic proneness to oppose imagination to good -sense, have at least this justification, that in many persons, perhaps -in most persons, the two actually conflict, but surely the point to -emphasize is that they may come together, that good sense may be -imaginative and imagination sensible. If imagination is not sensible, -as is plainly the case in Victor Hugo, for example, we may suspect a -lack of the universal and ethical quality. All men, even great poets, -are more or less immersed in their personal conceit and in the zones of -illusion peculiar to their age. But there is the question of degree. -The poets to whom the world has finally accorded its suffrage have not -been megalomaniacs; they have not threatened like Hugo to outbellow -the thunder or pull comets around by the tail.[321] Bossuet’s saying -that “good sense is the master of human life” does not contradict but -complete Pascal’s saying that “the imagination disposes of everything,” -provided only due stress be laid on the word human. It would not be -easy to live a more imaginative life than Hugo, but his imagination was -so unrestrained that we may ask whether he lived a very human life, -whether he was not rather, in Tennyson’s phrase, a “weird Titan.” Man -realizes that immensity of his being of which Joubert speaks only in so -far as he ceases to be the thrall of his own ego. This human breadth he -achieves not by throwing off but by taking on limitations, and what he -limits is above all his imagination. The reason why he should strive -for a life that is thus increasingly full and complete is simply, -as Joubert suggests, that it is more delectable, that it is found -practically to make for happiness. - -THE END - - - - -APPENDIX - -CHINESE PRIMITIVISM - - -Perhaps the closest approach in the past to the movement of which -Rousseau is the most important single figure is the early Taoist -movement in China. Taoism, especially in its popular aspects, became -later something very different, and what I say is meant to apply above -all to the period from about 550 to 200 B.C. The material for the -Taoism of this period will be found in convenient form in the volume -of Léon Wieger (1913)--_Les Pères du Système taoïste_ (Chinese texts -with French translations of Lao-tzŭ, Lieh-tzŭ and Chuang-tzŭ). The Tao -Tê King of Lao-tzŭ is a somewhat enigmatical document of only a few -thousand words, but plainly primitivistic in its general trend. The -phrase that best sums up its general spirit is that of Wordsworth--a -“wise passiveness.” The unity at which it aims is clearly of the -pantheistic variety, the unity that is obtained by breaking down -discrimination and affirming the “identity of contradictories,” and -that encourages a reversion to origins, to the state of nature and the -simple life. According to the Taoist the Chinese fell from the simple -life into artificiality about the time of the legendary Yellow Emperor, -Hoang-ti (27th century B.C.). The individual also should look back -to beginnings and seek to be once more like the new-born child[322] -or, according to Chuang-tzŭ, like the new-born calf.[323] It is in -Chuang-tzŭ indeed that the doctrine develops its full naturalistic and -primitivistic implications. Few writers in either East or West have -set forth more entertainingly what one may term the Bohemian attitude -towards life. He heaps ridicule upon Confucius and in the name of -spontaneity attacks his doctrine of humanistic imitation.[324] He -sings the praises of the unconscious,[325] even when obtained through -intoxication,[326] and extols the morality of the beautiful soul.[327] -He traces the fall of mankind from nature into artifice in a fashion -that anticipates very completely both Rousseau’s Discourse on the Arts -and Sciences[328] and that on the Origin of Inequality.[329] See also -the amusing passage in which the brigand Chi, child of nature and -champion of the weak against the oppressions of government, paints -a highly Rousseauistic picture of man’s fall from his primitive -felicity.[330] Among the things that are contrary to nature and purely -conventional, according to Chuang-tzŭ and the Taoists, are, not only -the sciences and arts and attempts to discriminate between good and -bad taste,[331] but likewise government and statecraft,[332] virtue -and moral standards.[333] To the artificial music of the Confucians, -the Taoists oppose a natural music that offers startling analogies to -the most recent programmatic and descriptive tendencies of Occidental -music.[334] See especially Chuang-tzŭ’s programme for a cosmic symphony -in three movements[335]--the _Pipes of Pan_ as one is tempted to call -it. This music that is supposed to reflect in all its mystery and -magic the infinite creative processes of nature is very close to the -primitivistic music (“L’arbre vu du côté des racines”) with which -Hugo’s satyr strikes panic into the breasts of the Olympians. - -The Taoist notion of following nature is closely related, as in other -naturalistic movements, to the idea of fate whether in its stoical -or epicurean form.[336] From the references in Chuang-tzŭ[337] -and elsewhere to various sects and schools we see that Taoism was -only a part of a great stream of naturalistic and primitivistic -tendency. China abounded at that time in pacifists,[338] in apostles -of brotherly love, and as we should say nowadays Tolstoyans. A true -opposite to the egoistic Yang-chu was the preacher of pure altruism -and indiscriminate sympathy, Mei-ti. Mencius said that if the ideas -of either of these extremists prevailed the time would come, not only -when wolves would devour men, but men would devour one another.[339] -In opposing discrimination and ethical standards to the naturalists, -Mencius and the Confucian humanists were fighting for civilization. -Unfortunately there is some truth in the Taoist charge that the -standards of the Confucians are too literal, that in their defence of -the principle of imitation they did not allow sufficiently for the -element of flux and relativity and illusion in things--an element for -which the Taoists had so keen a sense that they even went to the point -of suppressing the difference between sleeping and waking[340] and -life and death.[341] To reply properly to the Taoist relativist the -Confucians would have needed to work out a sound conception of the rôle -of the imagination--the universal key to human nature--and this they -do not seem to have done. One is inclined to ask whether this is the -reason for China’s failure to achieve a great ethical art like that of -the drama and the epic of the Occident at their best. The Taoists were -richly imaginative but along romantic lines. We should not fail to note -the Taoist influence upon Li Po and other Bohemian and bibulous poets -of the Tang dynasty, or the relation of Taoism to the rise of a great -school of landscape painting at about the same time. We should note -also the Taoist element in “Ch’an” Buddhism (the “Zen” Buddhism[342] of -Japan), some knowledge of which is needed for an understanding of whole -periods of Japanese and Chinese art. - -In these later stages, however, the issues are less clear-cut than -in the original struggle between Taoists and Confucians. The total -impression one has of early Taoism is that it is a main manifestation -of an age of somewhat sophistical individualism. Ancient Chinese -individualism ended like that of Greece at about the same time in -disaster. After a period of terrible convulsions (the era of the -“Fighting States”), the inevitable man on horseback appeared from the -most barbaric of these states and “put the lid” on everybody. Shi -Hwang-ti, the new emperor, had many of the scholars put to death and -issued an edict that the writings of the past, especially the Confucian -writings, should be destroyed (213 B.C.). Though the emperor behaved -like a man who took literally the Taoist views as to the blessings of -ignorance, it is not clear from our chief authority, the historian -Ssŭ-ma Ch’ien, that he acted entirely or indeed mainly under Taoist -influence. - -It is proper to add that though Lao-tzŭ proclaims that the soft is -superior to the hard, a doctrine that should appeal to the Occidental -sentimentalist, one does not find in him or in the other Taoists the -equivalent of the extreme emotional expansiveness of the Rousseauist. -There are passages, especially in Lao-tzŭ, that in their emphasis on -concentration and calm are in line with the ordinary wisdom of the -East; and even where the doctrine is unmistakably primitivistic the -emotional quality is often different from that of the corresponding -movement in the West. - - - - -BIBLIOGRAPHY - - -My only justification for these very unsystematic bibliographical notes -is that, bringing together as they do under one cover material somewhat -scattered and inaccessible to most readers, they may help to add to -the number, now unfortunately very small, of those who have earned -the right to have an opinion about romanticism as an international -movement. A list of this kind is a fragment of a fragment. I have -given, for example, only a fraction of the books on Rousseau and -scarcely any of the books, thousands in numbers, which without being -chiefly on Rousseau, contain important passages on him. I may cite -almost at random as instances of this latter class, the comparison -between Burke and Rousseau in the fifth volume of Lecky’s _History of -the Eighteenth Century_; the stanzas on Rousseau in the third canto -of _Childe Harold_; the passage on Rousseau in Hazlitt’s essay on the -_Past and Future_ (_Table Talk_). - -The only period that I have covered with any attempt at fullness is -that from about 1795 to 1840. Books that seem to me to possess literary -distinction or to deal authoritatively with some aspect of the subject -I have marked with a star. I make no claim, however, to have read -all the books I have listed, and my rating will no doubt often be -questioned in the case of those I have read. - -I have not as a rule mentioned articles in periodicals. The files of -the following special publications may often be consulted with profit. -Those that have current bibliographies I have marked with a dagger. - -† _Revue d’Histoire littéraire de la France._--† _Annales -romantiques._--† _Revue germanique_ (Eng. and German). - -† _Englische Studien_--_Anglia_.--† _Mitteilungen über Englische -Sprache und Literatur_ (Beiblatt zur Anglia).--† _Archiv für -das Studium der neueren Sprachen_ (_Herrigs Archiv_).--† -_Zeitschrift für französische Sprache und Literatur_--_Kritischer -Jahresbericht der romanischen Philologie_--_Germanisch-Romanische -Monatschrift_--_Euphorion_ (German lit.).--† _Zeitschrift für deutsches -Altertum und deutsche Literatur._ - -_Publications of the Modern Language Association of America._--† -_Modern Language Notes_ (Baltimore).--_Modern Philology_ -(Chicago).--_The Journal of English and Germanic Philology_ (Urbana, -Ill.).--† _Studies in Philology_ (Univ. of North Car.).--† _The Modern -Language Review_ (Cambridge, Eng.). - -Works that are international in scope and that fall either wholly -or in part in the romantic period are as follows: L. P. Betz: ✱ _La -Littérature Comparée, Essai bibliographique_, 2e éd. augmentée, -1904.--A. Sayous: _Le XVIIIe siècle à l’étranger_, 2 vols. 1861.--H. -Hettner: ✱ _Literaturgeschichte des 18. Jahr._ 1872. 6 vols. 5th edn. -1909. (Still standard.)--G. Brandes: ✱ _Main Currents in 19th Century -Literature_, 6 vols. 1901 ff. Originally given as lectures in Danish at -the University of Copenhagen and trans. into German, 1872 ff. (Often -marred by political “tendency.”)--T. Süpfle: _Geschichte des deutschen -Kultureinflusses auf Frankreich_, 2 vols. 1886-90.--V. Rossel: _Hist. -de la litt. fr. hors de France_. 2e éd. 1897.--C. E. Vaughan: _The -Romantic Revolt_, 1900.--T. S. Omond: _The Romantic Triumph_, 1900. (A -somewhat colorless book.) - - -ENGLISH FIELD - -✱ _The Cambridge History of English Literature_, vols. X, XI, XII, 1913 -ff. (Excellent bibliographies.)--See also articles and bibliographies -in ✱ _Dictionary of National Biography_, Chambers _Encyclopædia of -English Literature_ (new edn.) and _Encyclopædia Britannica_ (11th -edn.). - -L. Stephen: ✱ _History of English Thought in the 18th Century_, 1876. -(To be consulted for the deistic prelude to emotional naturalism. The -author’s horizons are often limited by his utilitarian outlook.)--T. -S. Seccombe: _The Age of Johnson_, 1900.--E. Bernbaum’s _English -Poets of the 18th Century_, 1918. (An anthology so arranged as -to illustrate the growth of sentimentalism.)--W. L. Phelps: _The -Beginnings of the English Romantic Movement_, 1893.--H. A. Beers: _A -History of English Romanticism in the 18th Century_, 1898. _A History -of English Romanticism in the 19th Century_, 1901. (Both vols. are -agreeably written but start from a very inadequate definition of -romanticism.)--C. H. Herford: _The Age of Wordsworth_, 1897.--G. -Saintsbury: _Nineteenth Century Literature_, 1896.--A. Symons: _The -Romantic Movement in English Poetry_, 1909. (Ultra-romantic in -outlook.)--W. J. Courthope: _History of English Poetry_, vols. V and -VI, 1911.--O. Elton: ✱ _A Survey of English Literature, 1780-1830_, -1912. (A distinguished treatment of the period, at once scholarly and -literary. The point of view is on the whole romantic, as appears in the -use of such general terms as “beauty” and the “infinite.”)--H. Richter: -_Geschichte der englischen Romantik_, 1911 ff.--W. A. Neilson: _The -Essentials of Poetry_, 1912. (The point of view appears in a passage -like the following, pp. 192-93: According to Arnold high seriousness -“is the final criterion of a great poet. One might suggest it as a more -fit criterion for a great divine. … The element for which Arnold was -groping when he seized on the σπουδή of Aristotle was not seriousness -but intensity.”)--P. E. More: ✱ _The Drift of Romanticism_ (_Shelburne -Essays, Eighth Series_), 1913. (Deals also with the international -aspects of the movement, especially in the essay on Nietzsche. The -point of view has much in common with my own.) - -George Lillo: _The London Merchant_; or _The History of George -Barnwell_, 1731. _Fatal Curiosity_, 1737. Both plays ed. with intro. -by A. W. Ward, 1906. (Bibliography.)--E. Bernbaum: _The Drama of -Sensibility, 1696-1780_, 1915. - -=S. Richardson=, 1689-1761: _Novels_, ed. L. Stephen, 12 vols. 1883. - -D. Diderot: _Eloge de R._, 1761. Reprinted in _Œuvres complètes_, vol. -v.--J. Jusserand: _Le Roman Anglais_, 1886.--J. O. E. Donner: _R. in -der deutschen Romantik_, 1896.--W. L. Cross: _The Development of the -English Novel_ (chap. II, “The 18th Century Realists”), 1899.--J. -Texte: ✱ _J.-J. Rousseau et les Origines du Cosmopolitisme littéraire_. -Eng. trans. by J.W. Matthews, 1899.--C. L. Thomson: _Samuel Richardson: -a Biographical and Critical Study_, 1900.--A. Dobson: _S. R._, 1902. - -=L. Sterne=, 1713-68: Collected Works, ed. G. Saintsbury, 6 vols. 1894. -Ed. W. L. Cross, 12 vols. 1904. - -P. Fitzgerald: _Life of S._, 2 vols. 1864. 3d edn. 1906.--P. Stapfer: -_Laurence Sterne_, 1870.--H. D. Traill: _Sterne_, 1882.--L. Stephen: -_Sterne. Hours in a Library_, vol. III, 1892.--J. Czerny: _Sterne, -Hippel, und Jean Paul_, 1904.--H. W. Thayer: _L. S. in Germany_, -1905.--P. E. More: _Shelburne Essays_, 3d Series, 1905.--W. L. Cross: -_The Life and Times of L. S._, 1909.--W. Sichel: ✱ _Sterne_, 1910.--L. -Melville: _The Life and Letters of L. S._, 2 vols. 1911.--F. B. 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Lit._ (bibliography), -1912.--C.-M. Des Granges: _Histoire illustrée de la litt. fr._, 1915. - -Eighteenth century: F. Baldensperger: _Lénore de Bürger dans la litt. -fr._, in _Etudes d’hist. litt._ 1e série, 1907. _Young et ses Nuits -en France_, _ibid._--J. Reboul: _Un grand précurseur des romantiques, -Ramond (1755-1827)_, 1911.--D. Mornet: _Le romantisme en Fr. au XVIIIe -siècle_, 1912.--P. van Tieghem: _Ossian en Fr._, 2 vols. 1917. - -E. Bersot: _Etudes sur le XVIIIe siècle_, 1855. _Hist. des idées -morales et politiques en Fr. au XVIIIe siècle_, 2 vols. 1865-67.--H. -Taine: ✱ _L’Ancien Régime_, 1876. Vol. I of _Les Origines de la Fr. -contemporaine_.--E. Faguet: ✱ _XVIIIe siècle_, 1892.--Rocafort: _Les -Doctrines litt. de l’Encyclopédie_, 1890.--G. Lanson: _Le Rôle de -l’expérience dans la formation de la philosophie du XVIIIe siècle_, -1910. - -Abbé Prévost: _Manon Lescaut_, 1731.--Harrisse: _Bibliographie et Notes -pour servir à l’hist. de Manon Lescaut_, 1875. _L’Abbé Prévost: hist. -de sa vie et de ses œuvres_, 1896.--Heilborn: _Abbé Prévost und seine -Beziehungen zur deutschen Lit._, 1897. - -_Œuvres complètes de Gessner_, trad. par Huber, 3 vols. 1768. H. -Heis: _Studien aber einige Beziehungen zwischen der deutschen und der -französischen Lit. im XVII. Jahr._ I. _Der Uebersetzer und Vermittler -Huber_, 1909. - -G. Lanson: ✱ _Nivelle de La Chaussée et la comédie larmoyante_, 1887. -2d edn. 1903.--E. Lintilhac: _Beaumarchais et ses œuvres_, 1887.--L. -Béclard: _Sébastien Mercier_, 1903.--Günther: _L’œuvre dramatique de -Sedaine_, 1908.--F. Gaiffe: _Etude sur le drame en Fr. au XVIIIe -siècle_, 1910. - -=J.-J. Rousseau=, 1712-1778: _Discours sur les sciences et les arts_, -1750. _Discours sur l’origine et les fondements de l’inégalité_, 1755. -_Nouvelle Héloïse_, 1761. _Emile_, 1762. _Le contrat social_, 1762. -Ed. Dreyfus-Brisác, 1896. Ed. Beaulavon, 1903. 2 éd. revue, 1914. -_Confessions_, 1782-88. Ed. A. van Beyer, 1914. ✱ _The Political -Writings of R._, ed. with intro., etc. by C. E. Vaughan, 2 vols. 1915. -(Excellent work on the text. The estimate of the political influence -seems to me to lack penetration.) Collected works: Ed. Petitain, 22 -vols. 1819-20. Ed. Musset-Pathay, 23 vols. 1823-26. Ed. Hachette, 13 -vols. 1887. (No good collected ed. as yet.) - -Streckeisen-Moultou: _Œuvres et Correspondance inédites de J.-J. R._, -1861. _J.-J. R., ses amis et ses ennemis_ (Lettres à R.), 1865.: E. -Asse: _Bibliographie de J.-J. R._ [no date]. For current bibliography -see ✱ _Annales de la Société J.-J. Rousseau_, 1905 ff. _Extraits de -J.-J. R._ publiés avec intro. p. L. Brunel. 3e éd. 1896.--_Morceaux -choisis de J.-J. R._ avec intro. etc., p. D. Mornet, 1911. - -Studies (chiefly biographical): Musset-Pathay: _Histoire de la Vie -et des Ouvrages de J.-J. R._, 2 vols. 1821.--Gaberel: _R. et les -Génevois_, 1858.--H. Beaudoin: _La Vie et les Œuvres de J.-J. R._, 2 -vols. 1891 (bibliography).--F. Mugnier: _Mme. de Warens et J.-J. R._, -1891.--F. Macdonald: _Studies in the France of Voltaire and R._, 1895. -_J.-J. R., a New Criticism_, 2 vols. 1906. (The evidence offered as to -the tampering with the memoirs of Mad. d’Epinay is of value. The work -is in general uncritical.)--E. Ritter: ✱ _La famille et la jeunesse -de J.-J. R._, 1896.--Stoppolini: _Le donne nella vita di G.-G. R._, -1898.--E. Rod: _L’affaire J.-J. R._, 1906.--Comte de Girardin: ✱ -_Iconographie de J.-J. R._, 1908. _Iconographie des Œuvres de J.-J. -R._, 1910.--H. Buffenoir: _Les Portraits de J.-J. R._--E. Faguet: _Vie -de R._, 1912.--G. Gran: _J.-J. R._, 1912. - -Hume: _Exposé succint de la contestation qui s’est élevée entre M. Hume -et M. Rousseau_, 1766.--Dussaulx: _De mes rapports avec J.-J. R._, -1798.--Comte d’Escherny: _Mélanges de littérature_, etc., 1811.--D. -Guillaume: _J.-J. R. à Motiers_, 1865.--Metzger: _J.-J. R. à l’île -Saint-Pierre_, 1875. _La conversion de Mme. Warens_, 1887. _Une -poignée de documents inédits sur Mme. Warens_, 1888. _Pensées de Mme. -Warens_, 1888. _Les dernières années de Mme. Warens_ [no date]. G. -Desnoiresterres: _Voltaire et J.-J. R._ (vol. VI of ✱ _Voltaire et la -société fr. au XVIIIe siècle_) 2e éd. 1875.--G. Maugras: _Voltaire -et J.-J. R._, 1886.--F. Berthoud: _J.-J. R. au Val de Travers_, -1881. _J.-J. R. et le pasteur de Montmollin_, 1884.--T. de Saussure: -_J.-J. R. à Venise, notes et documents_, recueillis par Victor -Ceresole 1885.--P. J. Möbius: ✱ _J.-J. R.’s Krankheitsgeschichte_, -1889.--Chatelain: _La Folie de J.-J. R._, 1890.--F. Mugnier: _Nouvelles -Lettres de Mme. Warens_, 1900.--A. de Montaigu: _Démêlés du Comte -Montaigu et de son secrétaire J.-J. R._, 1904.--B. de Saint-Pierre: -_La Vie et les Ouvrages de J.-J. R._, éd. critique p. par M. Souriau, -1907.--C. Collins: _J.-J. R. in England_, 1908.--A. Rey: _J.-J. R. -dans la vallée de Montmorency_, 1909.--D. Cabanès: _Le Cabinet secret -de l’histoire_, 3e série, 1909.--F. Girardet: _La Mort de J.-J. R._, -1909.--P.-P. Plan: _R. raconté par les gazettes de son temps_, 1913. - -General Studies (chiefly critical): Bersot: _Etudes sur le XVIIIe -siècle_, t. II, 1855.--J. Morley: ✱ _R._, 1873. 2d edn. 2 vols., -1886--Saint-Marc Girardin: _J.-J. R., sa vie et ses œuvres_, -1874.--H.-F. Amiel: _Caractéristique générale de R._, in _J.-J. R. -jugé par les Génevois d’aujourd’hui_, 1878.--Mahrenholtz: _J.-J. R.’s -Leben_, 1889.--Chuquet: _J.-J. R._, 1893.--H. Höffding: _R. und seine -Philosophie_, 1897.--J.-F. Nourrisson: _J.-J. R. et le Rousseauisme_, -1903.--Brédif: _Du Caractère intellectuel et moral de J.-J. R._, -1906.--J. Lemaître: _J.-J. R._, 1907.--L. Claretie: _J.-J. R. et -ses amis_, 1907.--L. Ducros: _J.-J. R. (1712-57)_, 1908. _J.-J. R. -(1757-65)_, 1917.--B. Bouvier: _J.-J. R._, 1912. - -Special Studies (chiefly critical): Sainte-Beuve: ✱ _Lundis_, t. II -(_R. et Mme. de Franqueville_), 1850; t. III (_les Confessions_), -1850; t. XV (_Œuvres et Correspondance inédites_), 1861. _Nouveaux -Lundis_, t. IX (_Mad. de Verdelin_), 1865.--J. R. Lowell: _R. and -the Sentimentalists, in Lit. Essays_, II, 1867.--Brunetière: _Etudes -critiques_, t. III (1886) et IV (1890).--C. Borgeaud: _J.-J. R.’s -Religionsphilosophie_, 1883.--A. Jansen: _R. als Musiker_, 1884. -_R. als Botaniker_, 1885.--Espinas: _Le système de R._, 1895.--T. -Davidson: _J.-J. R. and Education according to Nature_, 1898.--M. -Liepmann: _Die Rechtsphilosophie des J.-J. R._ 1898.--F. Haymann: -_J.-J. R.’s Sozial-Philosophie_, 1898.--P. E. Merriam: _History of -the Theory of Sovereignty since R._, 1900.--E. Duffau: _La profession -de foi du Vicaire Savoyard_, 1900.--J. L. Windenberger: _Essai sur le -Système de politique étrangère de J.-J. R._, 1900.--A. Pougin: _J.-J. -R. musicien_, 1901.--G. Schumann: _Religion und Religion-Erziehung -bei R._, 1902.--Faguet: _Politique comparée de Montesquieu, Voltaire -et R._, 1902.--M. Gascheau: _Les Idées économiques chez quelques -philosophes du XVIIIe siècle_, 1903.--Grand-Carteret: _La Montagne à -travers les âges_, 1903.--Albalat: _Le Travail du Style enseigné par -les corrections manuscrites des grands écrivains_, 1903.--A. Geikie: -_Landscape in History and other Essays_, 1905.--B. Lassudrie-Duchesne: -_J.-J. R. et le Droit des gens_, 1906.--G. del Vecchio: _Su la teoria -del Contratto Sociale_, 1906.--P. E. More: _Shelburne Essays_, VI -(_Studies in Religious Dualism_), 1909.--D. Mornet: _Le sentiment -de la nature en France, de J.-J. R. à B. de S. Pierre_, 1907.--L. -Gignoux: _Le théâtre de J.-J. R._, 1909.--H. Rodet: _Le Contrat Social -et les idées politiques de J.-J. R._, 1909.--A. Schinz: _J.-J. R., a -Forerunner of Pragmatism_, 1909.--G. Fusseder: _Beiträge zur Kenntnis -der Sprache R.’s_, 1909.--J.-J. Tiersot: _R._, 1912 (_Les Maîtres de -la Musique_).--G. Vallette: _J.-J. R. Génevois_, 1911.--E. Faguet: _R. -contre Molière_, 1912. _Les Amies de R._, 1912. _R. Artiste_, 1913. _R. -Penseur_, 1913. - -Sources: Dom Cajot: _Les Plagiats de J.-J. R. de Genève sur -l’Education_, 1765.--J. Vuy: _Origine des ideés politiques de -J.-J. R._, 1878.--G. Krüger: _Emprunts de J.-J. R. dans son -premier Discours_, 1891.--J. Texte: ✱ _J.-J. R. et les origines du -Cosmopolitisme littéraire au XVIIIe siècle_, 1895.--C. Culcasi: _Degli -influssi italiani nell’ opera di J.-J. R._--G. Chinni: _Le fonti dell’ -Emile de J.-J. R._, 1908.--D. Villey: _L’influence de Montaigne sur les -idées pédagogiques de Locke et de R._, 1911. - -Reputation and Influence: Mme. de Staël: _Lettres sur le caractère et -les ouvrages de J.-J. R._, 1788.--Mercier: _De J.-J. R. considéré comme -l’un des premiers auteurs de la Révolution_, 1791.--Kramer: _A.-H. -Francke, J.-J. R., H. Pestalozzi_, 1854.--E. Schmidt: _Richardson, -Rousseau und Goethe_, 1875.--Dietrich: _Kant et R._, 1878.--Nolen: -_Kant et J.-J. R._, 1880.--O. Schmidt: _R. et Byron_, 1887.--Pinloche: -_La réforme de l’éducation en Allemagne au XVIIIe siècle, Basedow -et le philanthropinisme_, 1889. _Pestalozzi et l’éducation populaire -moderne_, 1891.--Lévy-Bruhl: _L’Allemagne depuis Leibnitz_, 1890. -_La Philosophie de Jacobi_, 1894.--J. Grand-Carteret: _J.-J. R. -jugé par les Français d’aujourd’hui_, 1890.--R. Fester: _R. und -die deutsche Geschichtsphilosophie_, 1890.--H. Gössgen: _R. und -Basedow_, 1891.--C. H. Lincoln: _J.-J. R. and the French Revolution_, -1898.--A. Chalybans: _J.-J. R.’s Einfluss auf die französische -Revolution und die Socialdemokratie_, 1899.--V. Delbos: _Essai sur -la formation de la philosophie pratique de Kant_, 1903.--C. Cestre: -_La Révolution française et les Poètes anglais_, 1906.--P. Lasserre: -✱ _Le Romantisme français_, 1907.--Natorp: _Gesammelte Abhandlungen -zur Sozialpädagogik_, erste Abteilung: _Historisches (Pestalozzi -et R.)_, 1907.--M. Schiff: _Editions et traductions italiennes des -œuvres de J.-J. R._, 1908.--H. Buffenoir: _Le Prestige de J.-J. -R._, 1909.--E. Champion: _J.-J. R. et la Révolution française_, -1910 (superficial).--A. Meynier: _J.-J. R. révolutionnaire_, 1913 -(superficial).--_Revue de métaphysique et de morale_, May, 1912. -Symposium on R. and his influence by E. Boutroux, B. Bosanquet, J. -Jaurès, etc. For similar symposium (by G. Lanson, H. Höffding, E. -Gosse, etc.) see _Annales de la Soc. J.-J. R._, VIII (1912). For -symposium by Italian writers see _Per il IIo centenario di G. G. R. -(Studi pubblicati dalla Rivista pedagogica)_, 1913.--P. M. Masson: ✱ -_La Religion de J.-J. R._, 3 vols. 1917. (A storehouse of information -for the growth of deism and religious sentimentalism in France in the -18th century. Unfortunately the author is himself confused as to the -difference between genuine religion and mere religiosity.) - -=D. Diderot=, 1713-84: _Œuvres_, p. par Assézat et Tourneux, 20 vols. -1875-79. _Diderot. Extraits_, avec intro., etc., par J. Texte, 1909 -(excellent). _Pages choisies de D._, p. avec intro. par G. Pellissier, -1909 (excellent). - -Naigeon: _Mémoire sur la vie et les ouvrages de D._, 1798. _Mémoires -de Mme. de Vandeul_, 1830.--Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits litt._, I (1830). -_Lundis_, III, (1851).--Rosenkranz: _D.’s Leben und Werke_, 2 vols. -1866.--E. Scherer: ✱ _D._, 1880.--Caro: _La fin du Dix-huitième -Siècle_, t. I, 1880.--E. Faguet: _Dix-huitième Siècle_, 1892.--J. -Morley: ✱ _Diderot and the Encyclopædists_, 2 vols. 1891.--L. Ducros: -_D., l’homme et l’écrivain_, 1894.--J. Reinach: _D._, 1894.--A. -Collignon: _D., sa vie, ses œuvres, sa correspondance_, 1895.--Bersot: -_Etudes sur le Dix-huitième Siècle_, t. II, 1855.--Brunetière: _Etudes -critiques_, t. II. _Les Salons de D._, 1880.--J. Bédier: _Le Paradoxe -sur le Comédien est-il de D.? Etudes Critiques_, 1903. - -=Bernardin de Saint-Pierre=, 1737-1814: _Etudes de la nature_, 3 -vols. 1784; 4 vols. 1787 (4th vol. contains _Paul et Virginie_); éd. -augmentée, 5 vols. 1792. _œuvres complètes_, p. par Aimé Martin, 12 -vols. 1818-20. Supplément, 1823. _Correspondance_, p. par A. Martin, 3 -vols. 1826.--A. Barine: _B. de Saint-Pierre_, 1891.--F. Maury: _Etude -sur la vie et les œuvres de B. de Saint-Pierre_, 1892. - -Nineteenth Century: A. Nettement: _Histoire de la litt. fr. sous le -gouvernement de juillet_, 2 vols. 1854.--A. Michiels: _Histoire des -idées lit. en Fr._, 2 vols. 1842.--G. Pellissier: ✱ _Le mouvement -litt. au XIXe siècle_. (Eng. trans.) 6th edn. 1900.--E. Faguet: _Le -XIXe siècle_, 1887. ✱ _Politiques et Moralistes du XIXe siècle_, 3 -vols. 1891-99.--F. Brunetière: ✱ _L’Evolution de la poésie lyrique -en Fr. au XIXe siècle_, 2 vols. 1894.--C. Le Goffie: _La Litt. fr. -au XIXe siècle_, 1910.--F. Strowski: _Histoire de la litt. fr. au -XIXe siècle_, 1911. Important material bearing on the romantic period -will also be found in the critical essays of G. Planche, D. Nisard, -Sainte-Beuve, A. Vinet, E. Scherer, Barbey d’Aurevilly, H. Taine, E. -Montégut, F. Brunetière, P. Bourget, E. Biré, E. Faguet, J. Lemaître, -G. Larroumet, G. Pellissier, R. Doumic, etc. For fuller information -see bibliography of my _Masters of Mod. Fr. Crit._, 395 ff. For tables -of contents of the different volumes of these and other critics see -Thieme: _Guide bibliographique_, 499 ff. - -History, Critical Studies and Special Topics: Stendhal: _Racine -et Shakespeare_, 1823.--D. Sauvageot: _Le Romantisme_ (t. VIII de -_L’Hist. de la Litt. fr._, publiée sous la direction de Petit de -Julleville).--T. Gautier: _Hist. du Romantisme_, 1874.--Fournier: -_Souvenirs poétiques de l’Ecole Romantique_, 1880.--R. Bazin: -_Victor Pavie_, 1886.--T. Pavie: _Victor Pavie, sa jeunesse, ses -relations littéraires_, 1887.--L. Derôme: _Les éditions originales -des romantiques_, 2 vols. 1887.--G. Allais: _Quelques vues générales -sur le Romantisme fr._ 1897.--J. Texte: _L’influence allemande dans -le Romantisme fr._, in _Etudes de litt. européenne_, 1898.--E. Asse: -_Les petits romantiques_, 1900.--E. Dubedout: _Le sentiment chrétien -dans la poésie romantique_, 1901.--Le Roy: _L’Aube du théâtre -romantique_, 1902.--R. Canat: _Du sentiment de la solitude morale -chez les romantiques et les parnassiens_, 1904.--E. Barat: _Le style -poétique et la révolution romantique_, 1904.--H. Lardanchet: _Les -enfants perdus du romantisme_, 1905.--A. Cassagne: _La théorie de l’art -pour l’art en France_, 1906.--E. Kircher: _Philosophie der Romantik_, -1906.--E. Estève: ✱ _Byron et le Romantisme fr._, 1907.--Lasserre: -✱ _Le Romantisme fr._, 1907. (A very drastic attack on Rousseau and -the whole Rousseauistic tendency.)--L. Séché: _Le Cénacle de La Muse -Fr. (1823-27)_, 1908.--E. Seillière: _Le Mal romantique, essai sur -l’impérialisme irrationnel_, 1908. (One of about 18 vols. in which S. -attacks the underlying postulates of the Rousseauist. Like the other -leaders of the crusade against romanticism in France, S. seems to me -unsound on the constructive side.)--A. Pavie: _Médaillons romantiques_, -1909.--W. Küchler: _Französische Romantik_, 1909.--C. Lecigne: _Le -Fléau romantique_, 1909.--P. Lafond: _L’Aube romantique_, 1910.--L. -Maigron: ✱ _Le Romantisme et les mœurs_, 1910. _Le Romantisme et -la mode_, 1911.--G. Michaut: _Sur le Romantisme, une poignée de -définitions_ (extraits du _Globe_) in _Pages de critique et d’hist. -litt._, 1910.--J. Marsan: _La Bataille romantique_, 1912.--P. van -Tieghem: _Le Mouvement romantique_, 1912.--G. Pellissier: _Le Réalisme -du romantisme_, 1912.--A. Bisi: _L’Italie et le romantisme français_, -1914.--C. Maurras: _L’Avenir de l’intelligence._ 2e éd. 1917.--L. -Rosenthal: _Du Romantisme au réalisme_, 1918. - -A. Jullien: _Le Romantisme et l’éditeur Renduel_, 1897.--P. Nebout: _Le -Drame romantique_, 1897.--F. Baldensperger: ✱ _Goethe en France_, 1904. -_Bibliographie critique de Goethe en France_, 1907.--C. Latreille: -_La Fin du théâtre romantique et François Ponsard_, 1899.--R. Canat: -_La renaissance de la Grèce antique (1820-50)_, 1911.--G. Gendarme -de Bévotte: _La Légende de Don Juan_, 2 vols. 1911.--L. Séché: _Le -Cénacle de Joseph Delorme_, 2 vols. 1912.--J. L. Borgerhoff: _Le -théâtre anglais à Paris sous la Restauration_, 1913.--M. Souriau: _De -la convention dans la tragédie classique et dans le drame romantique_, -1885. - -Anthologies: _Anthologie des poètes fr. du XIXe siècle_ (Lemerre), 4 -vols. 1887-88.--_French Lyrics of the Nineteenth Century_, ed. by G. -N. Henning, 1913. (An excellent selection.)--_The Romantic Movement in -French Literature_, traced by a series of texts selected and edited by -H. F. Stewart and A. Tilley, 1910. - -The Press: _La Muse Française_, 1823-24. Reprinted with intro. by J. -Marsan, 2 vols. 1907-09.--P. F. Dubois: _Fragments litt._, articles -extraits du _Globe_, 2 vols. 1879.--T. Ziessing: _“Le Globe” de 1824 à -1830, considéré dans ses rapports avec l’école romantique_, 1881.--F. -Davis: _French Romanticism and the Press, “The Globe”_, 1906.--C. M. -Desgranges: ✱ _Le Romantisme et la critique, la presse litt. sous la -Restauration_, 1907. - -B. Constant: _Adolphe_, 1816; avec préface de Sainte-Beuve, 1867; de -P. Bourget, 1888; d’A. France, 1889.--Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits litt._, -1844. _Lundis_, XI (sur _Adolphe_); _Nouveaux Lundis_, I, 1862.--E. -Faguet: _Politiques et Moralistes_, 1re série, 1891.--G. Rudler: _La -jeunesse de B. Constant (1767-94)_, 1909. _Bibliographie critique des -œuvres de B. C._, 1908.--J. Ettlinger: _B. C., der Roman eines Lebens_, -1909. - -=Madame de Staël=, 1766-1817: _De la littérature_, 1801. Delphine, -1802. _Corinne_, 1807. _De l’Allemagne_, 1814. _Œuvres complètes_, 3 -vols. 1836. - -Biography: Mme. Necker de Saussure: _Notice en tête de l’édition des -Œuvres_, 1820.--Mme. Lenormant: _Mme. de S. et la grande duchesse -Louise_, 1862. _Mme. Récamier_, 1872.--A. Stevens: _Mme. de S._, 2 -vols. 1881.--D’Haussonville: _Le Salon de Mme. Necker_, 1882.--Lady -Blennerhassett: ✱ _Mme. de S. et son temps_, traduit de l’allemand p. -A. Dietrich, 3 vols. 1890.--A. Sorel: _Mme. de S._, 1890.--Dejob: _Mme. -de S. et l’Italie_, 1890.--E. Ritter: _Notes sur Mme. de S._, 1899.--P. -Gautier: _Mme. de S. et Napoléon_, 1903. - -Critical Studies: Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits Littéraires_, t. III, 1836. -_Portraits de Femmes_, 1844. _Nouveaux Lundis_, t. II, 1862.--Vinet: -_Etudes sur la litt. française. Mme. de S. et Chateaubriand_, 1849. New -edn. published by P. Sirven, 1911.--Faguet: _Politiques et Moralistes_, -1891.--F. Brunetière: _Evolution de la Critique_, 1892.--U. Mengin: -_L’Italie des Romantiques_, 1902.--Maria-Teresa Porta: _Mme. de S. e -l’Italia (bibliographia)_, 1909.--G. Muoni: _Ludovico di Breme e le -prime polemiche intorno a Mme. de S. ed al Romanticismo in Italia_.--E. -G. Jaeck: _Mme. de S. and the Spread of German Literature_, 1915.--P. -Kohler: _Mme. de S. et la Suisse_, 1916.--R. C. Whitford: _Mme. de S.’s -Reputation in England_, 1918. - -=François René de Chateaubriand=, 1768-1848. _Essai sur les -Révolutions_, 1797.--Atala, 1801. _Le Génie du Christianisme_, -1802. _René_, 1802. _Les Martyrs_, 1809. _Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe_, -1849-50; éd. Biré, 6 vols. 1898-1901. _œuvres complètes_, 12 vols. -1859-61. _Correspondance générale_, p. par L. Thomas, vols. I-IV, -1912-13.--Rocheblave: _Pages choisies de C._, 1896.--V. Giraud: -_Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe: Pages choisies_, 1912. - -Biography: Vinet: _Etudes sur la litt. française. Mme. de Staël et -C._, 1849. New edn. published by P. Sirven, 1911.--A. France: _Lucile -de Chateaubriand_, 1879.--A. Bardoux: _Mme. de Beaumont_, 1884. _Mme. -de Custine_, 1888. _Mme. de Duras_, 1898.--F. Saulnier: _Lucile de -Chateaubriand_, 1885.--G. Pailhès: _Mme. de C._, 1887. _Mme. de C., -lettres inédites à Clausel de Coussergues_, 1888. _C., sa femme et ses -amis_, 1896. _Du nouveau sur Joubert, C._, etc., 1900.--J. Bédier: _C. -en Amérique_, 1899. _Etudes critiques_, 1903.--E. Biré: _Les dernières -années de C. (1830-48)_, 1902.--A. Le Braz: _Au pays d’exil de C._, -1909.--A. Beaunier: _Trois amies de C._, 1910.--A. Cassagne: _La vie -politique de C._, 1911. - -Critical Studies: Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits Contemporains_, t. I, 1834, -1844. _Lundis_, ts. I, II, 1850; X, 1854. _Nouveaux Lundis_, t. III, -1862. ✱ _C. et son groupe littéraire sous l’Empire_, 1848. - -Villemain: _C._, 1853.--Comte de Marcellus: _C. et son temps_, -1859.--P. Bourget: _C._, in _Etudes et Portraits_, 1889.--C. Maurras: -_Trois idées politiques (C., Michelet, Sainte-Beuve)_, 1898.--F. -Gansen: _Le rapport de V. Hugo à C._, 1900.--Lady Blennerhassett: -_Die Romantik und die Restaurationsepoche in Frankreich, C._, -1903.--E. Dick: _Plagiats de C._, 1905.--G. Daub: _Der Parallelismus -zwischen C. und Lamartine_, 1909.--E. Michel: _C., interprétation -médico-psychologique de son caractère_, 1911.--Portiquet: _C. et -l’hystérie_, 1911.--V. Giraud: _Nouvelles études sur C._, 1912.--J. -Lemaître: _C._, 1912.--G. Chinard: ✱ _L’Exotisme américain dans l’œuvre -de C._, 1918. (This volume with its two predecessors: _L’Exotisme -américain au XVIe siècle_ (1911), and _L’Amérique et le rêve exotique -au XVIIe et au XVIIIe siècle_ (1913) is an important repertory of -material for the legend of the “noble savage” and allied topics.) - -=E. P. de Senancour=, 1770-1846: _Rêveries_, 1798, 1800. Ed. critique, -pub. par J. Merlant, vol. I, 1911. _Obermann_, 1804, 2d edn. with -preface by Sainte-Beuve, 1833.--J. Levallois: _Un précurseur, -Senancour_, 1897.--A. S. Tornudd: _S._, 1898--J. Troubat: _Essais -critiques_, 1902.--J. Merlant: _S., poète, penseur religieux et -publiciste_, 1907.--R. Bouyer: _Un contemporain de Beethoven, Obermann -précurseur et musicien_, 1907.--G. Michaut: _S., ses amis et ses -ennemis_, 1909. - -=Charles Nodier=, 1783-1844: _Œuvres_, 13 vols. 1832-41 -(incomplete).--S. de Lovenjoul: _Bibliographie et critique_, 1902. -_Œuvres choisies de N._ Notices p. A. Cazes, 1914.--Sainte-Beuve: -_Portraits littér._, I, 1840.--P. Mérimée: _Portraits histor. et -littér._, 1874.--E. Montégut: _Nos morts contemp._, I, II, 1884.--M. -Salomon: _C. N. et le groupe romantique d’après des documents inédits_, -1908.--J. Marsan: _Notes sur C. N., documents inédits, lettres_, 1912. - -=Alphonse de Lamartine=, 1790-1869: _Méditations poétiques_, 1820. -_Nouvelles méditations poétiques_, 1823. _Harmonies poétiques et -religieuses_, 1832. _Jocelyn_, 1836. _Œuvres complètes_, 41 vols. -1860-66. _Œuvres_ (éd. Lemerre), 12 vols. 1885-87. _Correspondance_, p. -par V. de Lamartine, 6 vols. 1872-75. - -Biographical and General Studies: F. Falconnet: _A. de L._, -1840.--Chapuys-Montlaville: _L._, 1843.--E. de Mirecourt: _L._, -1853.--E. Ollivier: _L._, 1874.--H. de Lacretelle: _L. et ses -amis_, 1878.--P. Bourget: _L._, in _Etudes et Portraits_, 1889.--De -Pomairols: _L._, 1889.--Baron de Chamborand de Périssat: _L. inconnu_, -1891.--F. Reyssié: _La jeunesse de L._, 1892.--Deschanel: _L._, -1893.--A. France: _L’Elvire de L._, 1893.--R. Doumic: _Elvire à -Aix-les-Bains_, in _Etudes sur la litt. française_, 6e série, 1909. -_L._, 1912.--Zyromski: _L. poète lyrique_, 1897.--Larroumet: _L._, in -_Nouvelles études de litt. et d’art_, 1899.--L. Séché: _L. de 1816 -à 1830_, 1905. _Le Roman d’Elvire_, 1909. _Les amitiés de L., 1re -série_, 1911.--E. Sugier: _L._, 1910.--P.-M. Masson: _L._, 1911.--P. de -Lacretelle: _Les origines et la jeunesse de L._, 1911. - -Critical Studies: G. Planche: _Portraits littéraires_, t. I, 1836. -_Nouveaux Portraits_, 1854.--Sainte-Beuve: ✱ _Lundis_, ts. I, IV, -X, 1849-54. _Portraits contemporains_, t. I, 1832-39.--J. Lemaître: -_Les Contemporains_, 6e série, 1896.--E. Faguet: _XIXe siècle_, -1897--Brunetière: _L’évolution de la poésie lyrique en France au XIXe -siècle_, 1894.--A. Roux: _La question de Jocelyn_, 1897.--M. Citoleux: -_La poésie philosophique au XIXe siècle, L._, 1905.--C. Maréchal: -_Le véritable Voyage en Orient de L._, 1908.--P. de Lacretelle: _Les -origines et la jeunesse de L._, 1911.--L. Séché: _Les Amitiés de L._, -1912.--R. Doumic: _L._, 1912.--H. R. Whitehouse: _The Life of L._, 2 -vols. 1918. - -=Alfred de Vigny=, 1797-1863: _Eloa_, 1824. _Poèmes antiques et -modernes_, 1826. _Cinq-Mars_, 1826. _Chatterton_, 1835. _Les -Destinées_, 1864. _Œuvres_ (Lemerre), 8 vols. 1883-85. _Le Journal -d’un poète_, p. par L. Ratisbonne, 1867. _La Correspondance d’A. de -V._, 1906 (incomplete).--S. de Lovenjoul: _Les Lundis d’un chercheur_, -1894.--E. Asse: _A. de V. et les éditions originales de ses poésies_, -1895.--J. Langlais: _Essai de bibliographie de A. de V._, 1905. - -Biography: L. Séché: _A. de V. et son temps_ [no date].--E. Dupuy: -_La Jeunesse des Romantiques_, 1905. _A. de V., ses amitiés, son rôle -littéraire_, 2 vols. 1912. - -Critical Studies: Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits littéraires_, t. III, 1844. -_Nouveaux Lundis_, t. VI, 1863.--Barbey d’Aurevilly: _Les Œuvres et -les Hommes_, III, 1862.--A. France: _A. de V._, 1868.--P. Bourget: -_Etudes et Portraits_, 1889.--Brunetière: _L’évolution de la poésie -lyrique_, 1894.--Faguet: _XIXe siècle_, 1897.--Paléologue: _A. de -V._, 1891.--Dorison: _A. de V. poète, philosophe_, 1891.--J. Lemaître: -_Contemporains_, VII, 1899.--E. Sakellaridès: _A. de V., auteur -dramatique_, 1902.--Marabail: _De l’influence de l’esprit militaire -sur A. de V._, 1905.--H. Schmack: _A. de V.’s Stello und Chatterton_, -1905.--P.-M. Masson: _A. de V._, 1908.--P. Buhle: _A. de V.’s biblische -Gedichte und ihre Quellen_, 1909.--E. Lauvrière: _A. de V._, 1910.--F. -Baldensperger: _A. de V._, 1912.--L. Séché: _A. de V._, 2 vols. -1914.--A. Desvoyes: _A. de V. d’après son œuvre_, 1914.--J. Aicard: _A. -de V._ 1914. - -=Victor Hugo=, 1802-85: _Œuvres complètes_, ed. _ne varietur d’après -les manuscrits originaux_, 48 vols. 1880-85. _Œuvres inédites_, 14 -vols. 1886-1902. _Correspondence (1815-84)_, 2 vols. 1896. _Lettres à -la fiancée (1820-22)_, 1901. - -Biography: Mme. Victor Hugo: _V. H. raconté par un témoin de sa -vie_, 2 vols. 1863.--E. Biré: _V. H. avant 1830_, 1883. _V. H. après -1830_, 2 vols. 1891. _V. H. après 1852_, 1894.--G. Larroumet: _La -maison de V. H., impressions de Guernsey_, 1895.--A. Jullien: _Le -Romantisme et l’éditeur Renduel_, 1897.--A. Barbou: _La Vie de V. H._, -1902.--G. Simon: _L’Enfance de V. H._, 1904.--E. Dupuy: _La Jeunesse -des Romantiques_, 1905.--C. Maréchal: _Lamennais et V. H._, 1906.--L. -Séché: _Le Cénacle de Joseph Delorme._ I, _V. H. et les Poètes._ -II, _V. H. et les artistes_, 1912.--L. Guimbaud: _V. H. et Juliette -Drouet_, 1914. - -Critical Studies: G. Planche: _Portraits littéraires_, ts. I, II, 1836. -_Nouveaux Portraits littéraires_, t. I, 1854.--Barbey d’Aurevilly: _Les -Misérables de M. Victor Hugo_, 1862.--Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits litt._, -t, I (1827); t. II (1840); t. III (1829); _Portraits contemporains_, -t. I (1830-35).--Rémusat: _Critiques et études littéraires du passé -et du présent_, 2e éd., 1857.--E. Zola: _Nos auteurs dramatiques_, -1881. _Documents littéraires_, 1881.--A. C. Swinburne: _Essay on -V. H._, 1886.--E. Dupuy: _V. H., l’homme et le poète_, 1887.--G. -Duval: _Dictionnaire des métaphores de V. H._, 1888.--P. Bourget: _V. -H._, in _Etudes et Portraits_, 1889.--Nisard: _Essais sur l’école -Romantique_, 1891.--L. Mabilleau: _V. H._, 1893.--C. Renouvier: _V. -H., le poète_, 1893. _V. H., le philosophe_, 1900.--A. Ricard: _Mgr. -de Miollis, évêque de Digne_, 1893.--Brunetière: _L’évolution de la -poésie lyrique_, 1894. _Les époques du théâtre français_, 1892.--A. -Blanchard: _Le théâtre de V. H. et la parodie_, 1894.--Morel Fatio: -_L’Histoire dans Ruy Blas_, in _Etudes sur l’Espagne, 1re série_, -1895.--A. J. Theys: _Métrique de V. H._, 1896.--M. Souriau: _La préface -de Cromwell_, 1897. _Les idées morales de V. H._, 1908.--A. Rochette: -_L’Alexandrin chez V. H._, 1899 and 1911.--F. Ganser: _Beiträge zur -Beurteilung des Verhältnisses von V. H. zu Chateaubriand_, 1900.--E. -Rigal: _V. H. poète épique_, 1900.--P. Stapfer: _V. H. et la grande -poésie satirique en France_, 1901.--T. Gautier: _V.H._, 1902.--P. -and V. Glachant: _Essai critique sur le théâtre de V. H., Drames -en vers. Drames en prose_, 2 vols., 1902 and 1903.--P. Levin: _V. -H._, 1902.--_Leçons faites à l’Ecole Normale sous la direction de F. -Brunetière_, 2 vols. 1902.--F. Gregh: _Etude sur V. H._, 1902.--H. -Peltier: _La philosophie de V. H._, 1904.--H. Galletti: _L’opera di -V.H. nella letteratura italiana_, 1904.--E. Huguet: _La couleur, la -lumière et l’ombre dans les métaphores de V. H._, 1905.--L. Lucchetti: -_Les images dans les œuvres de V. H._, 1907.--P. Bastier: _V. H. und -seine Zeit._, 1908.--Maria Valente: _V. H. e la lirica italiana_, -1908.--A. Guiard: _La fonction du poète, étude sur V. H._, 1910. -_Virgile et V. H._, 1910.--C. Grillet: _La Bible dans V. H._, 1910.--P. -Berret: _Le moyen âge européen dans La Légende des Siècles_, 1911.--A. -Rochette: _L’Alexandrin chez V. H._, 1911.--P. Dubois: _V. H. Ses Idées -religieuses de 1802-25_, 1913. - -H. Berlioz: _Correspondance inédite (1819-68)_, pub. par D. Bernard, -1879. _Lettres intimes_, pub. par Ch. Gounod, 1882. _Berlioz; les -années romantiques (1819-42), Correspondance_, pub. par J. Tiersot, -1907.--A. Boschot: _La Jeunesse d’un romantique, H. Berlioz (1803-31)_, -1906. _Un romantique sous Louis Philippe, Berlioz (1831-42)_, 1908. _Le -Crépuscule d’un romantique, Berlioz (1842-69)_, 1913. - -=Alexandre Dumas=, 1803-70: _Henri III et sa cour_, 1829. _Antony_, -1831. _Les Trois Mousquetaires_, 1844. _Le Comte de Monte Cristo_, -1844-45. - -J. Janin: _A.D._, 1871.--B. Matthews: In _Fr. Dramatists of the 19th -cent._ , 1881.--B. de Bury: _A. D._, 1885.--E. Courmeaux: _A. D._, -1886.--J. J. Weiss: _Le théâtre et les mœurs_, 3e éd. 1889.--H. -Parigot: _Le drame d’ A. D._, 1898. _A. D._, 1901.--H. Lecomte: _A. -D._, 1903.--J. Lemaître: _Impressions de théâtre_, t. III (1890), IV -(’95), VIII (’95), IX (’96).--R. Doumic: _De Scribe à Ibsen_, 1896; -also in _Hommes et idées du XIXe Siècle_, 1903. - -=George Sand=, 1804-76: _Indiana_, 1832. _Lélia_, 1833. _Jacques_, -1834. _Consuelo_, 1842-43. _La petite Fadette_, 1849. _Histoire -de ma vie_, 4 vols. 1854-55.--_Correspondance_, 6 vols. 1882-84. -_Correspondance de G. S. et d’ A. de Musset_, p. par F. Decori, 1904. -_Œuvres complètes_ (éd. C. Lévy), 105 vols.--S. de Lovenjoul: _Etude -bibliographique sur les œuvres de G. S._, 1868. - -Biography: H. Lapaire and F. Roz: _La bonne dame de Nohant_, -1897.--Ageorges: _G. S. paysan_, 1901.--A. Le Roy: _G. S. et ses amis_, -1903.--H. Harrisse: _Derniers moments et obsèques de G. S., souvenirs -d’un ami_, 1905.--A. Séché and J. Bertaut: _La vie anecdotique et -pittoresque des grands écrivains, G. S._, 1909. - -Critical Studies: G. Planche: _Portraits littéraires_, t. II, 1836. -_Nouveaux Portraits littéraires_, t. II, 1854.--Sainte-Beuve: ✱ -_Lundis_, t. I, 1850. _Portraits Contemporains_, 1832.--E. Caro: _G. -S._, 1887.--P. Bourget: _Etudes et Portraits_, 1889.--J. Lemaître: -_Les Contemporains_, t. IV, 1889. _Impressions de théâtre_, ts. I, IV, -1888-92.--Marillier: _La sensibilité et l’imagination chez G. S._, -1896.--W. Karénine: _G. S._, 3 vols. 1899-1912.--R. Doumic: _G. S._, -1909.--L. Buis: _Les théories sociales de G. S._, 1910.--E. Moselly: -_G. S._, 1911. - -=Gérard de Nerval=, 1808-55: _Œuvres compl._, 5 vols. 1868. M. -Tourneux: _G. de N._, 1867.--T. Gautier: _Portr. et souvenirs -littér._, 1875.--Arvède Barine: _Les Névrosés_, 1898.--Mlle. -Cartier: _Un intermédiaire entre la France et l’Allemagne, G. de -N._, 1904.--Gauthier-Ferrières: _G. de N., la vie et l’œuvre_, -1906.--J. Marsan: _G. de N., lettres inédites_, 1909.--_Correspondance -(1830-55)_, p. par J. Marsan, 1911.--A. Marie: _G. de N._, 1915. - -=Alfred de Musset=, 1810-57: _Œuvres Complètes_ (Charpentier), -10 vols. 1866, 10 vols. (Lemerre), 1886. 9 vols. p. par E. Biré, -1907-08.--Rocheblave: _Lettres de George Sand à Musset et à -Sainte-Beuve_, 1897.--_Correspondance de George Sand et d’A. de M._, -p. par F. Decori, 1904.--_Correspondance d’A. de M._, p. par L. Séché, -1907.--S. de Lovenjoul: _Etude critique et bibliographique des œuvres -d’A. de M._, 1867.--M. Clouard: _Bibliographie des œuvres d’A. de M._, -1883. - -Biography: G. Sand: _Elle et Lui_, 1859.--P. de Musset: _Lui et Elle_, -1859. _Biographie d’A. de M._, 1877.--Louise Colet: _Lui_, 1859.--S. de -Lovenjoul: _La véritable histoire de Elle et Lui_, 1897.--P. Mariéton: -_Une histoire d’amour, George Sand et A. de M._, 1897.--E. Lefébure: -_L’état psychique d’A. de M._, 1897.--E. Faguet: _Amours d’hommes de -lettres_, 1906.--L. Séché: _A. de M._, 1907. _La Jeunesse dorée sous -Louis-Philippe_, 1910. - -Critical Studies: Sainte-Beuve: _Portraits Contemporains_, t. II, -1833. ✱ _Lundis_, I., 1850, XIII, 1857.--D. Nisard: _Etudes d’hist. et -de lit._, 1859. _Mélanges d’hist. et de lit._, 1868.--P. Lindau: _A. -de M._, 1876.--H. James: _Fr. Poets and Novelists_, 1878.--D’Ancona: -_A. de M. e l’Italia_, in _Varieta Storiche e Letterarie_, 2 vols. -1883-85.--J. Lemaître: _Impr. de théâtre_, I, II (’88), VII (’93), IX -(’96), X (’98).--Arvède Barine: _A. de M._, 1893.--L. P. Betz: _H. -Heine und A. de M._, 1897.--L. Lafoscade: _Le théâtre d’A. de M._, -1901.--G. Crugnola: _A. de M. e la sua opera_, 2 vols. 1902-03.--J. -d’Aquitaine: _A. de M., l’œuvre, le poète_, 1907.--Gauthier-Ferrières: -_M., la vie de M., l’œuvre, M. et son temps_, 1909.--M. Donnay: _A. de -M._, 1914.--C. L. Maurras: ✱ _Les Amants de Venise_, Nou. éd., 1917. - -=Théophile Gautier=, 1811-72: _Les Jeune-France_, 1833. _Mlle. de -Maupin_, 1836-36. _Emaux et Camées_, 1852. _Histoire du romantisme_, -1874. _Œuvres Compl._ (éd. Charpentier). 37 vols. 1883.--M. Tourneux: -_T. G., sa bibliographie_, 1876.--S. de Lovenjoul: _Histoire des œuvres -de T. G._, 2 vols. 1887. - -Sainte-Beuve: _Premiers Lundis_, t. II, 1838. _Portraits -Contemporains_, II. 1846. _Nouveaux Lundis_, VI, 1863.--Barbey -d’Aurevilly: _Les Œuvres et les Hommes_, 1865.--Baudelaire: _L’Art -romantique_, 1874.--E. Feydeau: _T. G., souvenirs intimes_, 1874.--H. -James: _Fr. Poets and Novelists_, 1878.--E. Bergerat: _T. G._, -1880.--M. Du Camp: _T. G._, 1890.--E. Richet: _T. G., l’homme, la vie -et l’œuvre_, 1893. - - -GERMAN FIELD - -Bibliography: Goedeke: ✱ _Grundriss zur Geschichte der deutschen -Dichtung_, 2 edn. vol. VI, 1898.--R. M. Meyer: _Grundriss der neuren -deutschen Literaturgeschichte_, 2 edn. 1907.--A. Bartels: _Handbuch -zur Geschichte der deutschen Literatur_, 2 edn. 1909.--_Jahresberichte -für neuere deutsche Literaturgeschichte_, 1892 ff. (bibliographical -notes on romanticism by O. F. Walzel). - -General Studies: H. Heine: ✱ _Die romantische Schule_, 1836. Eng. -trans, in _Bohn’s Library_. (Filled with political “tendency.” A -brilliant attack on romanticism by a romanticist.)--J. v. Eichendorff: -_Ueber die ethische und religiöse Bedeutung der neuren romantischen -Poesie in Deutschland_, 1847.--J. Schmidt: _Geschichte der Romantik im -Zeitalter der Reformation und der Revolution_, 2 vols. 1848-50.--H. -Hettner: ✱ _Die romantische Schule in ihrem inneren Zusammenhange -mit Goethe und Schiller_.--R. Haym: ✱ _Die romantische Schule_, -1870. Unrevised reprint, 1902. (Heavy reading but still the standard -treatment.)--Ricarda Huch: ✱ _Blütezeit der Romantik_, 1899. ✱ -_Ausbreitung und Verfall der Romantik_, 1902. (Attractively written. -The point of view, like that of practically all Germans, is very -romantic.)--Marie Joachimi: _Die Weltanschauung der deutschen -Romantik_, 1905.--O. F. Walzel: ✱ _Deutsche Romantik_, 3 edn. 1912.--R. -M. Wernaer: _Romanticism and the Romantic School in Germany_, 1909. -(The outlook, which professes to be humanistic, seems to me in the -main that of the beautiful soul.)--A. Farinelli: _Il romanticismo in -Germania_, 1911. (Simply reeks with the “infinite” in the romantic -sense. “Sono, ahimè, stoffa di ribelle anch’io.” Useful bibliographical -notes.)--A. W. Porterfield: _An Outline of German Romanticism_, 1914. -(Of no importance from the point of view of ideas. The bibliography is -useful.)--J. Bab: _Fortinbras, oder der Kampf des 19. Jahr. mil dem -Geist der Romantik_, 1912. (An attack on romanticism.) - -See also A. Kobersteim: _Geschichte der deutschen Nationalliteratur_, -vol. IV, pp. 543-955, 1873.--G. G. Gervinus: _Geschichte der deutschen -Dichtung_, vol. V, pp. 631-816, 1874.--R. M. Meyer: _Die deutsche -Literatur des 19. Jahr._, pp. 1-243, 1898.--R. v. Gottschall: -_Die deutsche Nationalliteratur des 19. Jahr._, vol. I, 1901.--K. -Francke: _A History of German Literature_, 1901. (The point of view -is sociological rather than literary.)--W. Scherer: _Geschichte der -deutschen Literatur_, pp. 614-720, 1908.--C. Thomas: _A History of -German Literature_, pp. 328-76, 1909.--J. G. Robertson: _Outlines -of the History of German Literature_, pp. 178-253, 1911.--A. Biese: -_Deutsche Literaturgeschichte_, vol. II, pp. 288-693, 1912. - -Anthologies: _Stürmer und Dränger_. An anthology ed. by A. Sauer. -_Deutsche Nat. Lit._, vols. 79, 80, 81, 1883.--_Sturm und Drang. -Dichtungen aus der Geniezeit_, ed. by Karl Freye.--A. Spiess: _Die -deutschen Romantiker_, 1903. (Poetry and prose.)--F. Oppeln-Bronikowski -and L. Jacobowski: _Die blaue Blume. Eine Anthologie romantischer -Lyrik_, 1908. - -Philosophy: L. Noack: _Schelling und die Philosophie der Romantik_, -2 vols. 1859.--E. Grucker: _François Hemsterhuis, sa vie et ses -œuvres_, 1866.--E. Meyer: _Der Philosoph F. Hemsterhuis_, 1893.--W. -Dilthey: ✱ _Leben Schleiermachers_, 1870.--J. Royce: _The Spirit of -Modern Philosophy_, 1892.--L. Lévy-Bruhl: _La Philosophie de Jacobi_, -1894.--H. Höffding: _A History of Modern Philosophy_ (bk. VIII: _The -Philosophy of Romanticism_), 1900.--R. Burck: _H. Steffens, Ein Beitrag -zur Philosophie der Romantik_, 1906.--W. Windelband: _Geschichte der -neuren Philosophie_, 4 edn. 2 vols. 1907 (Eng. trans.). - -Music and painting: H. Riemann: ✱ _Geschichte der Musik seit -Beethoven_, 1800-1900, pp. 106-356, 1901.--D. G. Mason: _The Romantic -Composers_, 1906.--E. Istel: ✱ _Die Blütezeit der musikalischen -Romantik in Deutschland_, 1909.--✱ _The Oxford History of Music_, -vol. VI (_The Romantic Period_, 1905).--C. Gurlitt: _Die deutsche Kunst -des 19. Jahr._, especially pp. 180-279, 1899.--A. Aubert: _Runge und -die Romantik_, 1909.--R. Muther: _Geschichte der Malerei_, 3 vols. -(vol. III for romantic period in Germany and other countries), 1909. - -Special Topics (18th and 19th Centuries): L. Friedländer: _Ueber die -Entstehung und Entwickelung des Gefühls für das Romantische in der -Natur_, 1873.--J. Minor: _J. G. Hamann in seiner Bedeutung für die -Sturm und Drangperiode_, 1881. _Das Schicksalsdrama._ _Deutsche Nation. -Lit._, vol. 151. _Die Schicksalstragödie in ihren Hauptvertretern_, -1883.--R. Unger: ✱ _Hamann und die Aufklärung_, 1911.--G. Bonet-Maury: -_Bürger et les origines anglaises de la ballade littéraire en -Allemagne_, 1890.--S. Lublinski: _Die Frühzeit der Romantik_, 1899.--T. -S. Baker: _The Influence of L. Sterne upon German Literature_ in -_Americana Germanica_, vol. II, 1900.--R. Tombo: _Ossian in Germany_, -1902 (bibliography).--E. Ederheimer: _Jakob Boehme und die Romantiker_, -1904.--L. Hirzel: _Wieland’s Beziehungen zu den deutschen Romantikern_, -1904.--K. Joel: _Nietzsche und die Romantik_, 1904.--S. Schultze: -_Die Entwickelung des Naturgefühls in der deutschen Literatur des -19. Jahr._ 1906.--M. Joachimi-Dege: _Deutsche Shakespeare-Probleme -im 18. Jahr. und im Zeitalter der Romantik_, 1907.--E. Vierling: -_Z. Werner: La conversion d’un romantique_, 1908.--E. Glöckner: -_Studien zur romantischen Psychologie der Musik_, 1909.--R. Benz: -_Märchen-Dichtung der Romantiker_, 1909.--F. Brüggemann: _Die Ironie -als entwicklungsgeschichtliches Moment_, 1909.--O. F. Walzel: _Das -Prometheussymbol von Shaftesbury zu Goethe_, 1910.--F. Strich: _Die -Mythologie in der deutschen Literatur von Klopstock bis Wagner_, -1910.--F. G. Shneider: _Die Freimaurerei und ihr Einfluss auf die -geistige Kultur in Deutschland am Ende des 18. Jahr._ 1909.--R. -Buchmann: _Helden und Mächte des romantischen Kunstmärchens_, 1910.--K. -G. Wendriner: _Das romantische Drama_, 1909.--O. F. Walzel and H. Hub: -✱ _Zeitschriften der Romantik_, 1904.--J. Bobeth: _Die Zeitschriften -der Romantik_, 1910.--J. E. Spenlé: _Rahel, Mme. Varnhagen v. Ense. -Histoire d’un salon romantique en Allemagne_, 1910.--P. Wächtler: _E. -A. Poe und die deutsche Romantik_, 1910.--W. Brecht: _Heinse und das -ästhetische Immoralismus_, 1911.--E. Mürmig: _Calderon und die ältere -deutsche Romantik_, 1912.--G. Gabetti: _Il dramma di Z. Werner_, -1917.--J. J. A. Bertrand: _Cervantes et le Romantisme allemand_, 1917. - -=J. G. Herder=, 1744-1803: _Fragmente über die neuere deutsche -Literatur_, 1767. _Kritische Wälder_, 1769. _Volkslieder_, 1778. -_Vom Geist der Ebräischen Poesie_, 1782. _Ideen zur Philosophie der -Geschichte der Menschheit_, 1784-85. _Sämt. Werke_, ed. B. Suphan, 32 -vols. 1877-99.--Joret: _Herder_, 1876.--R. Haym: _Herder nach seinem -Leben und seinen Werken dargestellt_, 2 vols. 1885.--E. Kühnemann: -_Herder_, 2 edn. 1907. - -=J. W. v. Goethe=, 1749-1832: _Götz von Berlichingen_, 1773. _Die -Leiden des jungen Werthers_, 1774. _Faust: Ein Fragment_, 1790. -Collected Works (Jubiläums Ausgabe), ed. E. von der Hellen, 40 vols. -1902-12.--T. Carlyle: _Essays on G._ in Critical and Mis. Essays, vols. -I, IV, 1828-32.--J. W. Appell: ✱ _Werther und seine Zeit._, 1855. -4 edn. 1896.--E. Schmidt: _Richardson, Rousseau und G._, 1875.--A. -Brandl: _Die Aufnahme von G.’s Jugendwerken in England. Goethe-Jahrb._, -vol. III, 1883.--R. Steig: _G. und die Gebrüder Grimm_, 1892.--J. O. E. -Donner: _Der Einfluss Wilhelm Meisters auf den Roman der Romantiker_, -1893.--E. Oswald: _G. in England and America_, 1899.--A. Brandl: _Ueber -das Verhältnis G.’s zu Lord Byron. Goethe-Jahrb._, vol. 20, 1900.--K. -Schüddekopf and O. F. Walzel: ✱ _Goethe und die Romantik, Briefe mit -Erläuterungen_, vols. 13 and 14 of the pub. of the Goethegesellschaft, -1893-94.--S. Waetzold: _G. und die Romantik_, 2 edn. 1903.--O. -Baumgarten: _Carlyle und G._, 1906.--H. Röhl: _Die älteste Romantik und -die Kunst des jungen G._, 1909. - -=J. C. F. Schiller=, 1759-1805: _Die Räuber_, 1781. _Briefe über -die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen_, 1795. _Ueber naïve u. -sentimentalische Dichtung_, 1795-96. (Trans. of these and other -æsthetic treatises of S. in _Bohn’s Library_.) Collected works, ed. -E. von der Hellen, 16 vols. 1904-05.--C. Alt: _S. und die Brüder -Schlegel_, 1904.--E. Spenlé: _Schiller et Novalis_, in _Etudes sur -Schiller publiées pour le Centenaire_, 1905.--A. Ludwig: ✱ _Schiller -und die deutsche Nachwelt_ (especially pp. 52-202), 1909. - -=J. P. F. Richter=, 1763-1825: _Titan_, 1803. _Flegeljahre_, 1804. -_Die Vorschule der Æsthetik_, 1804. Selected works with intro. by R. -Steiner, 8 vols. (Cotta, no date).--P. Nerrlich: _Jean Paul und seine -Zeitgenossen_, 1876. _Jean Paul; sein Leben und seine Werke_, 1889.--J. -Müller: _Jean Paul und seine Bedeutung für die Gegenwart_, 1894. -_Jean Paul-Studien_, 1900.--W. Hoppe: _Das Verhältnis Jean Pauls zur -Philosophie seiner Zeit_, 1901.--H. Plath: _Rousseau’s Einfluss auf -Jean Paul’s “Levana”_, 1903. - -=J. C. F. Hölderlin=, 1770-1843: _Gesammelte Dichtungen_. Int. by B. -Litzmann, 2 vols. (Cotta, no date). _Werke_, ed. M. Joachimi-Dege, -1913. _Hölderlin’s Leben in Briefen von und an Hölderlin_, ed. K. K. -T. Litzmann, 1890.--C. Müller-Rastatt: _F. H. Sein Leben und seine -Dichtungen_, 1894.--W. Dilthey: ✱ _Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung_, pp. -330-455, 1907.--E. Bauer: _H. und Schiller_, 1908.--L. Bohme: _Die -Landschaft in den Werken H.’s und Jean Pauls_, 1908. - -=Friedrich Leopold, Freiherr von Hardenberg (Novalis)=, 1772-1801: -_Die Lehrlinge zu Saïs_, 1798. _Die Christenheit oder Europa_, 1799. -_Heinrich von Ofterdingen_, 1800. _Hymnen an die Nacht_, 1800. -Schriften, ed. E. Heilborn, 3 vols. 1901. _Schriften_, ed. J. Minor, 4 -vols. 1907. _Werke_, ed. H. Friedemann [1913].--Carlyle: N., in _Crit. -Essays_, vol. II, 1829.--_Friedrich v. Hardenberg._ A collection of -documents from the family archives by a member of the family, 1873.--J. -Bing: _Novalis_, 1893.--C. Busse: _N.’s Lyrik_, 1898.--E. Heilborn: -_N., der Romantiker_, 1901.--E. Spenlé: ✱ _Novalis_, 1904.--W. -Olshausen: _F. v. Hardenbergs Beziehungen zur Naturwissenschaft seiner -Zeit_, 1905.--W. Dilthey: ✱ _Das Erlebnis und die Dichtung_, pp. -201-82, 1906.--H. Lichtenberger: ✱ _Novalis_, 1912. - -=A. W. v. Schlegel=, 1767-1845: _Vorlesungen über dramatische Kunst und -Literatur_, 1809-11. Eng. trans. 1814. Fr. trans. 1815. Ital. trans. -1817. _Sämtliche Werke_, 12 vols. 1846-47; also _œuvres écrites en -français_, 3 vols. and Opera latine scripta, 1 vol. 1846.--_Vorlesungen -über schöne Literatur und Kunst_ (1801-03), ed. with intro. by J. -Minor in _Literaturdenkmäler des 18. und 19. Jahrs._ nos. 17-19, -1884.--Selections with intro. by O. F. Walzel in _Deutsche Nat. lit._, -vol. 143.--M. Bernays: _Zur Entstehungsgeschichte des Schlegelschen -Shakespeare_, 1872.--E. Sulger-Gebing: _Die Brüder A. W. und F. -Schlegel in ihrem Verhältnisse zur bildenden Kunst_, 1897. - -=Friedrich v. Schlegel=, 1772-1829: Lucinde, 1799. _Ueber die -Weisheit und Sprache der Indier_, 1808. _Sämt. Werke_, 15 vols. -1847. ✱ _Jugendschriften_ (1794-1802), ed. J. Minor, 1906. _F. -Schlegels Philosophische Vorlesungen aus den Jahren 1804 bis 1806. -Aus dem Nachlass_, von C. F. H. Windischmann, 2 vols. 1836-37.--✱ -_F. Schlegel’s Briefe an seinen Brüder August Wilhelm_, ed. O. F. -Walzel, 1890. Schleiermacher: _Vertraute Briefe über die Lucinde_, -1800. (New edn. ed. by R. Frank, 1907.)--I. Rouge: _F. Schlegel et -la genèse du Romantisme allemand_, 1904.--_Dorothea und F. Schlegel. -Briefe an die Familie Paulus_, ed. R. Unger, 1913.--C. Enders: _F. -Schlegel. Die Quellen seines Wesens und Werdens_, 1913. (Attaches great -importance to the influence on S. of Hemsterhuis, a philosopher of -Neo-Platonic and Rousseauistic tendency.)--H. Horwitz: _Das Ich-Problem -der Romantik. Die historische Stellung F. S.’s innerhalb der modernen -Geistesgeschichte_, 1916. - -=J. L. Tieck=, 1773-1853: _William Lovell_, 1796. _Der blonde Eckbert_, -1796. _Prinz Zerbino_, 1798. _Franz Sternbalds Wanderungen_, 1798. -_Leben und Tod der heiligen Genoveva_, 1799. _Schriften_, 28 vols. -1828-54. _Ausgewählte Werke_, ed. H. Welti, 8 vols. 1888. Two of -the tales trans. in Carlyle’s _German Romance_, 1841. ✱ _Briefe an -Ludwig Tieck_, selected and edited by K. von Holtei, 4 vols. 1864.--H. -Petrich: _Drei Kapitel vom romantischen Stil_, 1878.--J. Minor: -_T. als Novellendichter_, in _Akademische Blätter_, pp. 128-61 and -193-220, 1884.--J. Ranftl: _L. T.’s Genoveva als romantische Dichtung -betrachtet_, 1899.--K. Hassler: _L. T.’s Jugendroman William Lovell und -der Paysan perverti_, 1902.--H. Günther: _Romantische Kritik und Satire -bei L. T._, 1907.--G. H. Danton: _The Nature Sense in the Writings of -L. T._, 1907.--F. Brüggemann: _Die Ironie in T.’s William Lovell und -seinen Vorläufern_, 1909.--S. Krebs: _Philipp Otto Runge und L. T._, -1909.--W. Steinert: _L. T. und das Farbenempfinden der romantischen -Dichtung_, 1910.--E. Schönebeck: _T. und Solger_, 1910. - -=W. H. Wackenroder=, 1773-98: _Herzensergiessungen eines kunstliebenden -Klosterbruders_, 1797, ed. by K. D. Jessen, 1904. _Tieck und -Wackenroder (Phantasien über die Kunst)_, ed. J. Minor in _Deutsche -Nat. Lit._, vol. 145.--P. Koldewey: _Wackenroder und sein Einfluss auf -Tieck_, 1903. - -=Friedrich Baron de La Motte Fouqué=, 1777-1843: _Undine_, 1811. -_Lebensgeschichte des Baron F. de La M. Fouqué, ausgezeichnet durch ihn -selbst_, 1840. _Ausgewählte Werke_, 12 vols. 1841.--W. Pfeiffer: _Ueber -Fouqués Undine_, 1903.--L. Jeuthe: _Fouqué als Erzähler_, 1910. - -=E. T. A. Hoffmann=, 1776-1822: _Sämt. Werke_. Intro. by E. Grisebach, -15 vols. 1899. _Ausgewählte Erzählungen._ _Bücher der Rose_ series, -vol. 6, 1911. _Contes fantastiques_, trad. par Loève-Veimars, 20 vols. -1829-33. G. Ellinger: _E. T. A. H.: sein Leben und seine Werke_, -1894.--G. Thurau: _H.’s Erzählungen in Frankreich_, 1896.--A. Barine: -_Poètes et Névrosés_, pp. 1-58, 1908.--P. Cobb: _The Influence of H. -on the Tales of E. A. Poe_, 1908.--A. Sakheim: _Hoffmann: Studien zu -seiner Persönlichkeit und seinen Werken_, 1908.--C. Schaeffer: _Die -Bedeutung des Musikalischen und Akustischen in H.’s literarischen -Schaffen_, 1909.--E. Kroll: _H.’s musikalische Anschauungen_, 1909.--P. -Sucher: _Les sources du merveilleux chez H._, 1912. - -=Heinrich v. Kleist=, 1777-1811: _Sämt. Werke_, ed. F. Muncker, 4 -vols. 1893. _Werke_, ed. E. Schmidt [1905].--A. Wilbrandt: _H. v. -K._, 1863.--R. Bonafous: _H. de K. Sa vie et ses œuvres_, 1894.--G. -Minde-Pouet: _H. v. K. Seine Sprache und sein Stil_, 1897.--R. Steig: -_K.’s Berliner Kämpfe_, 1901.--S. Rahmer: _Das Kleist-Problem_, 1903. -_H. v. K. als Mensch und Dichter_, 1909.--M. Lex: _Die Idee im Drama -bei Goethe, Schiller, Grillparzer, K._, 1904.--E. Kayka: _K. und die -Romantik_, 1906.--W. Herzog: _H. v. K. Sein Leben und seine Werke_, -1911.--H. Meyer-Benfey: _Das Drama H. v. K.’s_, 2 vols. 1911-13.--K. -Günther: _Die Entwickelung der novellistischen Kompositionstechnik K.’s -bis zur Meisterschaft_, 1911.--W. Kühn: _H. v. K. und das deutsche -Theater_, 1912. - -=C. M. Brentano=, 1778-1842: _Gesammelte Schriften_, 9 vols. 1852-55. -_Godwi_, ed. A. Ruest, 1906.--A. Kerr: _Godwi; ein Kapitel deutscher -Romantik_, 1898. - -=A. v. Chamisso=, 1781-38: _Peter Schlemihls wundersame Geschichte_, -1814. _Gesammelte Werke_, ed. M. Koch, 4 vols. 1883. _Werke_, ed. O. F. -Walzel. _Deutsche Nat. Lit._, vol. 148, 1892. _Werke_, ed. M. Sydow, -2 vols. 1912. _Aus Chamisso’s Frühzeit. Ungedruckte Briefe_, ed. L. -Geiger, 1905.--K. Fulda: _Chamisso und seine Zeit._, 1881.--X. Brun: -_A. de Chamisso de Boncourt_, 1896. - -=Achim v. Arnim=, 1781-1831: _Des Knaben Wunderhorn_ (first 3 vols.), -1808. Werke, ed. M. Jacobs, 2 vols. 1910. _Arnims Tröst Einsamkeit_, -ed. F. Pfaff, 1883.--R. Steig and H. Grimm: ✱ _A. v. Arnim und die ihm -nahe standen_, 3 vols. 1894-1904.--F. Rieser: _Des Knaben Wunderhorn -und seine Quellen_, 1908.--K. Bode: _Die Bearbeitung der Vorlagen in -des Knaben Wunderhorn_, 1909. - -=J. L. Uhland=, 1787-1862: _Werke_, ed. H. Fischer, 6 vols. 1892. -_Gedichte_, ed. E. Schmidt and J. Hartmann, 2 vols. 1898.--F. Notter: -_L. U.; seine Leben und seiner Dichtungen_, 1863.--K. Mayer: _L. -U.; seine Freunde und Zeitgenossen_, 1867.--A. v. Keller: _U. als -Dramatiker_, 1877.--G. Schmidt _U.’s Poetik_, 1906.--W. Reinhöhl: _U. -als Politiker_, 1911. - -=J. v. Eichendorff=, 1788-1857: _Aus dem Leben eines Taugenichts_, -1826. _Werke_, ed. R. v. Gottschall, 4 vols. [no date].--J. Nadler: -_Eichendorff’s Lyrik und ihre Geschichte_, 1908. - -=Heinrich Heine=, 1797-1856: _Sämt. Werke_, ed. E. Elster, 7 vols. -1887-90. _H.’s Autobiographie, nach seinen Werken, Briefen und -Gesprächen_, ed. G. Karpeles, 1888. Trans. by Arthur Dexter, 1893. -_Erinnerungen an H. H. und seine Familie_ by his brother, Maximilien -Heine, 1868.--A. Meissner: _H. H.: Erinnerungen_, 1856.--A. Strodtmann: -_H. H.’s Leben und Werke_, 1884.--M. Arnold: ✱ _H. H._, in _Essays -in Criticism_, 4th edn., 1884.--George Eliot: _German Wit: H. H._, -in _Essays_, 1885.--K. R. Prölls: _H. H.: Sein Lebensgang und seine -Shriften_, 1886.--G. Karpeles: _H. H. und seine Zeitgenossen_, 1888. -_H. H.: Aus seinem Leben und aus seiner Zeit._, 1899.--A. Kohut: _H. -H. und die Frauen_, 1888.--Wm. Sharp: _Life of H. H._ (bibliography by -J. P. Anderson), 1888.--T. Odinga: _Ueber die Einflüsse der Romantik -auf H. H._, 1891.--T. Gautier: _Portraits et souvenirs littéraires_, -pp. 103-28, 1892.--L. P. Betz: _Die französische Litteratur im Urteile -H. H.’s._, 1897. _H. H. und A. de Musset_, 1897.--J. Legras: _H. H., -Poète_, 1897.--G. M. C. Brandes: _Ludwig Börne und H. H._, 2n ed. -1898.--O. zur Linde: _H. H. und die deutsche Romantik_, 1899.--F. -Melchior: _H. H.’s Verhältnis zu Lord Byron_, 1903.--E. A. Schalles: -_H.’s Verhältnis zu Shakespeare_, 1904.--A. W. Fischer: _Ueber die -volkstümlichen Elemente in den Gedichten H.’s_, 1905.--W. Ochsenbein: -_Die Aufnahme Lord Byrons in Deutschland und sein Einfluss auf den -jungen H._, 1905.--R. M. Meyer: _Der Dichter des Romanzero in Gestalten -und Probleme_, pp. 151-63, 1905.--A. Bartels: _H. H.: Auch ein -Denkmal_, 1906.--H. Reu: _H. H. und die Bibel_, 1909.--C. Puetzfeld: -_H. H.’s Verhältnis zur Religion_, 1912. - -=Nikolaus Lenau=, 1802-50: _Sämt. Werke_, ed. A. Grüss [no year].--A. -X. Schurz: _L.’s Leben_, 2 vols. 1855.--L. A. Frankl: _Zur Biographie -L.’s._, 1885.--T. S. Baker: _L. and Young Germany in America_, -1897.--L. Roustan: _L. et son temps_, 1898.--J. Saly Stern: _La vie -d’un poète, essai sur L._, 1902.--A. W. Ernst: _L.’s Frauengestalten_, -1902.--T. Gesky: _L. als Naturdichter_, 1902.--C. v. Klenze: _Treatment -of Nature in the Works of N. L._, 1903.--L. Reynaud: _N. L., poète -lyrique_, 1905. - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] See, for example, in vol. IX of the _Annales de la Société -Jean-Jacques Rousseau_ the bibliography (pp. 87-276) for 1912--the year -of the bicentenary. - -[2] _Literature and the American College_ (1908); _The New Laokoon_ -(1910); _The Masters of Modern French Criticism_ (1912). - -[3] See his Oxford address _On the Modern Element in Literature_. - -[4] These two tendencies in Occidental thought go back respectively at -least as far as Parmenides and Heraclitus. - -[5] In his _World as Imagination_ (1916) E. D. Fawcett, though -ultra-romantic and unoriental in his point of view, deals with a -problem that has always been the special preoccupation of the Hindu. -A Hindu, however, would have entitled a similar volume _The World -as Illusion_ (māyā). Aristotle has much to say of fiction in his -_Poetics_ but does not even use the word imagination (φαντασία). In the -_Psychology_, where he discusses the imagination, he assigns not to it, -but to mind or reason the active and creative rôle (νοῦς ποιητικός). -It is especially the notion of the _creative_ imagination that is -recent. The earliest example of the phrase that I have noted in French -is in Rousseau’s description of his erotic reveries at the Hermitage -(_Confessions_, Livre IX). - -[6] Essay on Flaubert in _Essais de Psychologie contemporaine_. - -[7] _Le Romantisme et les mœurs_ (1910). - -[8] _Annales de la Société Jean-Jacques Rousseau_, VIII, 30-31. - -[9] I should perhaps say that in the case of Buddha I have been able to -consult the original Pāli documents. In the case of Confucius and the -Chinese I have had to depend on translations. - -[10] See appendix on Chinese primitivism. - -[11] See, for example, _Majjhima_ (Pāli Text Society), I, 265. Later -Buddhism, especially Mahāyāna Buddhism, fell away from the positive and -critical spirit of the founder into mythology and metaphysics. - -[12] Buddha expressed on many occasions his disdain for the _Vedas_, -the great traditional authority of the Hindus. - -[13] I have explained the reasons for giving this place to Bacon in -chapter II of _Literature and the American College_. - -[14] _Eth. Nic._, 1179 a. - -[15] I scarcely need remind the reader that the extant Aristotelian -writings which have repelled so many by their form were almost -certainly not meant for publication. For the problems raised by these -writings as well as for the mystery in the method of their early -transmission see R. Shute, _History of the Aristotelian Writings_ -(1888). The writings which Aristotle prepared for publication and -which Cicero describes as a “golden stream of speech” (_Acad._ II, -38, 119) have, with the possible exception of the recently recovered -_Constitution of Athens_, been lost. - -[16] See his _Essai sur le genre dramatique sérieux_. - -[17] Quoted in Grimm’s Dictionary. - -[18] Ex lectione quorundam romanticorum, i.e. librorum compositorum -in gallico poeticorum de gestis militaribus, in quibus maxima pars -fabulosa est. - -[19] Perhaps the most romantic lines in English are found in one of -Camillo’s speeches in _The Winter’s Tale_ (IV, 4): - - a wild dedication of yourselves - To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores. - -This “wild dedication” is, it should be noted, looked upon by Camillo -with disfavor. - -[20] _Pepys’s Diary_, 13 June, 1666. - -[21] Thomas Shadwell, Preface to the _Sullen Lovers_, 1668. - -[22] _Spectator_, 142, by Steele. - -[23] Pope, 2d Epistle, _Of the Character of Women_. - -[24] Cf. _Revue d’hist. litt._, XVIII, 440. For the Early French -history of the word, see also the article _Romantique_ by A. François -in _Annales de la Soc. J.-J. Rousseau_, V, 199-236. - -[25] First edition, 1698; second edition, 1732. - -[26] Cf. his _Elégie à une dame_. - - Mon âme, imaginant, n’a point la patience - De bien polir les vers et ranger la science. - La règle me déplaît, j’écris confusément: - Jamais un bon esprit ne fait rien qu’aisément. - … - Je veux faire des vers qui ne soient pas contraints - … - Chercher des lieux secrets où rein ne me déplaise, - Méditer à loisir, rêver tout à mon aise, - Employer toute une heure à me mirer dans l’eau, - Ouïr, comme en songeant, la course d’un ruisseau. - Ecrire dans un bois, m’interrompre, me taire, - Composer un quatrain sans songer à le faire. - -[27] _Caractères_, ch. V. - -[28] His psychology of the memory and imagination is still -Aristotelian. Cf. E. Wallace, _Aristotle’s Psychology_, Intr., -lxxxvi-cvii. - -[29] _An Essay upon Poetry_ (1682). - -[30] The French Academy discriminates in its _Sentiments sur le Cid_ -between two types of probability, “ordinary” and “extraordinary.” -Probability in general is more especially reserved for action. In the -domain of action “ordinary” probability and decorum run very close -together. It is, for example, both indecorous and improbable that -Chimène in the _Cid_ should marry her father’s murderer. - -[31] In his _Preface_ to Shakespeare. - -[32] For a similar distinction in Aristotle see _Eth. Nic._, 1143 b. - -[33] The Platonic and Aristotelian reason or mind (νοῦς) contains an -element of intuition. - -[34] In his _Lettre à d’Alembert sur les spectacles_. - -[35] _Rousseau contre Molière_, 238. - -[36] _Letters on Chivalry and Romance._ - -[37] See verses prefixed to Congreve’s _Double-Dealer_. - -[38] - - Change l’état douteux dans lequel tu nous ranges, - Nature élève-nous à la clarté des anges, - Ou nous abaisse au sens des simples animaux. - - _Sonnet_ (1657?). - -[39] See, for example, A. Gerard’s _Essay on Genius_ (1774), _passim_. - -[40] The English translation of this part of the _Critique of -Judgment_, edited by J. C. Meredith, is useful for its numerous -illustrative passages from these theorists (Young, Gerard, Duff, etc.). - -[41] Mrs. Katharine Fullerton Gerould has dealt interestingly with this -point in an article in the _Unpopular Review_ (October, 1914) entitled -_Tabu and Temperament_. - -[42] See _Biographia literaria_, ch. XXII. - -[43] This message came to him in any case straight from German -romanticism. See Walzel, _Deutsche Romantik_, 22, 151. - -[44] “De tous les corps et esprits, on n’en saurait tirer un -mouvement de vraie charité; cela est impossible, et d’un autre ordre, -surnaturel.” _Penseés_, Article XVII. “Charité,” one should recollect, -here has its traditional meaning--the love, not of man, but of God. - -[45] See poem, _Ce siècle avait deux ans_ in the _Feuilles d’Automne_. - -[46] For amusing details, see L. Maigron, _Le Romantisme et la mode_ -(1911), ch. V. - -[47] For Disraeli see Wilfrid Ward, _Men and Matters_, 54 ff. Of -Bulwer-Lytton at Nice about 1850 Princess von Racowitza writes -as follows in her _Autobiography_ (p. 46): “His fame was at its -zenith. He seemed to me antediluvian, with his long dyed curls and -his old-fashioned dress … with long coats reaching to the ankles, -knee-breeches, and long colored waistcoats. Also, he appeared always -with a young lady who adored him, and who was followed by a man -servant carrying a harp. She sat at his feet and appeared as he did -in the costume of 1830, with long flowing curls called _Anglaises_. -… In society, however, people ran after him tremendously, and spoilt -him in every possible way. He read aloud from his own works, and, in -especially poetic passages, his ‘Alice’ accompanied him with arpeggios -on the harp.” - -[48] See essay by Kenyon Cox on _The Illusion of Progress_, in his -_Artist and Public_. - -[49] See _Creative Criticism_ by J. E. Spingarn, and my article on -_Genius and Taste_, reviewing this book, in the _Nation_ (New York), 7 -Feb., 1918. - -[50] One should note here as elsewhere points of contact between -scientific and emotional naturalism. Take, for example, the educational -theory that has led to the setting up of the elective system. The -general human discipline embodied in the fixed curriculum is to be -discarded in order that the individual may be free to work along the -lines of his bent or “genius.” In a somewhat similar way scientific -naturalism encourages the individual to sacrifice the general human -discipline to a specialty. - -[51] See his poem _L’Art_ in _Emaux et Camées_. - -[52] - - Quel esprit ne bat la campagne? - Qui ne fait châteaux en Espagne? - Picrochole, Pyrrhus, la laitière, enfin tous, - Autant les sages que les fous - Chacun songe en veillant; il n’est rien de plus doux. - Une flatteuse erreur emporte alors nos âmes; - Tout le bien du monde est à nous, - Tous les honneurs, toutes les femmes. - Quand je suis seul, je fais au plus brave un défi, - Je m’écarte, je vais détrôner le sophi; - On m’élit roi, mon peuple m’aime; - Les diadèmes vont sur ma tête pleuvant: - Quelque accident fait-il que je rentre en moi-même, - Je suis gros Jean comme devant. - -[53] _Rasselas_, ch. XLIV. - -[54] _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Pt. II, Lettre XVII. - -[55] Rostand has hit off this change in the Balcony Scene of his -_Cyrano de Bergerac_. - -[56] Essay on _Simple and Sentimental Poetry_. - -[57] The life of Rousseau by Gerhard Gran is written from this point of -view. - -[58] - - The world’s great age begins anew, - The golden years return, etc. - - _Hellas_, vv. 1060 ff. - -[59] For an excellent analysis of Shelley’s idealism see Leslie -Stephen’s _Godwin and Shelley_ in his _Hours in a Library_. - -[60] _Letters_, II, 292. - -[61] See his letter to Wordsworth, 30 January, 1801. - -[62] _Dramatic Art and Literature_, ch. I. - -[63] Cf. Voltaire: On ne peut désirer ce qu’on ne connaît pas. -(_Zaïre_.) - -[64] Cf. Sainte-Beuve, _Causeries du lundi_. XV, 371: “Le romantique -a la nostalgie, comme Hamlet; il cherche ce qu’il n’a pas, et jusque -par delà les nuages; il rêve, il vit dans les songes. Au dix-neuvième -siècle, il adore le moyen âge; au dix-huitième, il est déjà -révolutionnaire avec Rousseau,” etc. Cf. also T. Gautier as quoted in -the _Journal des Goncourt_, II, 51: “Nous ne sommes pas Français, nous -autres, nous tenons à d’autres races. Nous sommes pleins de nostalgies. -Et puis quand à la nostalgie d’un pays se joint la nostalgie d’un -temps … comme vous par exemple du dix-huitième siècle … comme moi de -la Venise de Casanova, avec embranchement sur Chypre, oh! alors, c’est -complet.” - -[65] See article _Goût_ in _Postscriptum de ma vie_. - -[66] Schlegel’s _Dramatic Art and Literature_, Lecture XXII. - -[67] For a discussion of this point see I. Rouge: _F. Schlegel et la -Genèse du romantisme allemand_, 48 ff. - -[68] For a development of this point of view see the essay of Novalis: -_Christianity or Europe_. - -[69] _Confessions_, Livre IX (1756). - -[70] This is Goethe’s very classical definition of genius: Du nur, -Genius, mehrst in der Natur die Natur. - -[71] Greek literature, after it had lost the secret of selection and -the grand manner, as was the case during the Alexandrian period, also -tended to oscillate from the pole of romance to the pole of so-called -realism--from the _Argonautica_ of Apollonius of Rhodes, let us say, to -the _Mimes_ of Herondas. - -[72] _Emile_, Livre II. - -[73] _Etudes de la nature._ - -[74] See, for example, _Tatler_, 17 November, 31 December, 1709 (by -Steele). - -[75] See her letter to Gustavus III, King of Sweden, cited in _Gustave -III et la cour de France_, II, 402, par A. Geffroy. - -[76] See Hastings Rashdall: _Is Conscience an Emotion?_ (1914), -especially ch. I. Cf. _Nouvelle Héloïse_. (Pt. VI, Lettre VII): -“Saint-Preux fait de la conscience morale un sentiment, et non pas un -jugement.” - -[77] _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Pt. V, Lettre II. - -[78] _Ibid._ - -[79] _Ibid._, Pt. IV, Lettre XII. - -[80] Schiller’s definition is well known: “A beautiful soul we call -a state where the moral sentiment has taken possession of all the -emotions to such a degree that it may unhesitatingly commit the -guidance of life to instinct,” etc. (_On Grace and Dignity._) Cf. -Madame de Staël: “La vertu devient alors une impulsion involontaire, -un mouvement qui passe dans le sang, et vous entraîne irrésistiblement -comme les passions les plus impérieuses.” (_De la Littérature: Discours -préliminàire._) - -[81] _Avenir de la Science_, 354. - -[82] _Ibid._, 179-180. - -[83] _Avenir de la Science_, 476. - -[84] Madame de Warens felt the influence of German pietism in her -youth. See _La Jeunesse de J.-J. Rousseau_ par E. Ritter; ch. XIII. - -[85] _Lettre à M. Molé_ (21 October, 1803). - -[86] _Le romantisme français_, 215. - -[87] See _Les Amours de Milord Bomston_ at the end of _La Nouvelle -Héloïse_. - -[88] _Sultan Mourad_ in _La Légende des Siècles_. - -[89] _Correspondence_, III, 213 (June, 1791). The date of this letter -should be noted. Several of the worst terrorists of the French -Revolution began by introducing bills for the abolition of capital -punishment. - -[90] See Burton’s _Hume_, II, 309 (note 2). - -This sentimental trait did not escape the authors of the _Anti-Jacobin_: - - Sweet child of sickly Fancy--Her of yore - From her lov’d France Rousseau to exile bore; - And while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran - Full of himself and shunn’d the haunts of man, - Taught her o’er each lone vale and Alpine steep - To lisp the stories of his wrongs and weep; - Taught her to cherish still in either eye - Of tender tears a plentiful supply, - And pour them in the brooks that babbled by-- - Taught her to mete by rule her feelings strong, - False by degrees and delicately wrong, - For the crush’d Beetle, _first_--the widow’d Dove, - And all the warbled sorrows of the grove, - _Next_ for poor suff’ring Guilt--and _last_ of all, - For Parents, Friends, or King and Country’s fall. - -[91] - - Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men - Whom I already loved;--not verily - For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills - Where was their occupation and abode. - - _Michael_ - -[92] - - Once more the Ass, with motion dull, - Upon the pivot of his skull - Turned round his long left ear. - -“The bard who soars to elegize an ass” and the “laureate of the -long-eared kind” (_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers_) is, however, -not Wordsworth but Coleridge. See his poem _To a Young Ass, its mother -being tethered near it_. - -[93] See the poem _Acte d’accusation_ in _Les Contemplations_. - -[94] _Le Crapaud_ in _La Légende des Siècles_. - -[95] See _Apology_ 31D. - -[96] His _Language and Wisdom of the Hindus_ appeared in 1808. - -[97] See _Jugendschriften_, ed. by J. Minor, II, 362. - -[98] _Dhammapada._ - -[99] _Sutta-Nipāta_, v. 149 (_Metta-sutta_). - -[100] _Second Dialogue._ - -[101] _Letters_, II, 298. For Ruskin and Rousseau see _Ibid._ I, 360: -“[Ruskin] said that great parts of _Les Confessions_ were so true to -himself that he felt as if Rousseau must have transmigrated into his -body.” - -[102] “If a poet wishes an atmosphere of indistinct illusion and of -moving shadow, he must use the romantic style. … Women, such as we know -them, such as they are likely to be, ever prefer a delicate unreality -to a true or firm art.” Essay on _Pure, Ornate, and Grotesque Art in -English Poetry_ (1864). - -[103] “Die Romanze auf einem Pferde” utters the following lines in the -Prologue to Tieck’s _Kaiser Octavianus_: - - Mondbeglänzte Zaubernacht, - Die den Sinn gefangen hält, - Wundervolle Märchenwelt - Steig’ auf in der alten Pracht. - -A special study might be made of the rôle of the moon in Chateaubriand -and Coleridge--even if one is not prepared like Carlyle to dismiss -Coleridge’s philosophy as “bottled moonshine.” - -[104] O. Walzel points out that as soon as the women in H. von Kleist’s -plays become conscious they fall into error (_Deutsche Romantik_, 3. -Auflage, 147). - -[105] Byron, _Sardanapalus_, IV, 5. Cf. Rousseau, _Neuvième Promenade_: -“Dominé par mes sens, quoi que je puisse faire, je n’ai jamais pu -résister à leurs impressions, et, tant que l’objet agit sur eux, mon -cœur ne cesse d’en être affecté.” Cf. also Musset, _Rolla_: - - Ce n’était pas Rolla qui gouvernait sa vie, - C’étaient ses passions; il les laissait aller - Comme un pâtre assoupi regarde l’eau couler. - -[106] _Modern Painters_, Part V, ch. XX. - -[107] _Confessions_, Pt. II, Livre IX (1756). - -[108] - - With nature never do _they_ wage - A foolish strife; they see - A happy youth and their old age - Is beautiful and free. - - Wordsworth: _The Fountain_. - -[109] The phrase imaginative insight is, I believe, true to the spirit -of Plato at his best, but it is certainly not true to his terminology. -Plato puts the imagination (φαντασία) not only below intuitive -reason (νοῦς) and discursive reason or understanding (διάνοια), but -even below outer perception (πίστις). He recognizes indeed that it -may reflect the operations of the understanding and even the higher -reason as well as the impressions of sense. This notion of a superior -intellectual imagination was carried much further by Plotinus and -the neo-Platonists. Even the intellectual imagination is, however, -conceived of as passive. Perhaps no Greek thinker, not even Plato, -makes as clear as he might that reason gets its intuition of reality -and the One with the aid of the imagination and, as it were, through -a veil of illusion, that, in Joubert’s phrase, “l’illusion est une -partie inté, grante de la réalité” (_Pensées_, Titre XI, XXXIX). -Joubert again distinguishes (_ibid._, Titre III, XLVII, LI) between -“l’imaginative” which is passive and “l’imagination” which is active -and creative (“l’œil de l’âme”). In its failure to bring out with -sufficient explicitness this _creative_ rôle of the imagination and in -the stubborn intellectualism that this failure implies is to be found, -if anywhere, the weak point in the cuirass of Greek philosophy. - -[110] See Xenophon, _Memorabilia_, IV, 16, 3. - -[111] Σωφροσύνη. - -[112] See his _Lettre à d’Alembert_. - -[113] _Varieties of Religious Experience_, 387. - -[114] _Blütezeit der Romantik_, 126. - -[115] “Parfaite illusion, réalité parfaite” (Alfred de Vigny). “Die -Welt wird Traum, der Traum wird Welt” (Novalis). “This sort of dreaming -existence is the best; he who quits it to go in search of realities -generally barters repose for repeated disappointments and vain regrets” -(Hazlitt). - -[116] _Lit. Ang._, IV, 130. - -[117] About 1885. - -[118] _Le Théâtre en France_, 304. - -[119] - - Je suis une force qui va! - Agent aveugle et sourd de mystères funèbres. - -[120] E.g., Lillo’s _Fatal Curiosity_ (1736) had a marked influence on -the rise of the German fate tragedy. - -[121] - - Wo ist der, der sagen dürfe, - So will ich’s, so sei’s gemacht, - Unser Taten sind nur Würfe - In des Zufalls blinde Nacht. - - _Die Ahnfrau._ - -[122] “So that in the first place, I put for a general inclination of -all mankind, a perpetual and restless desire of Power after power, that -ceaseth only in Death.” _Leviathan_, Part I, ch. XI. - -[123] See _Unpopular Review_, October, 1915. - -[124] E. Seillière has been tracing, in _Le Mal romantique_ and -other volumes, the relation between Rousseauism and what he terms an -“irrational imperialism.” His point of view is on the constructive side -very different from mine. - -[125] The best account of Rousseau’s German influence is still that of -H. Hettner in his _Literaturgeschichte des 18. Jahrhunderts_. Compared -with Rousseau’s German influence, says Professor Paul Hensel in his -_Rousseau_ (1907), “his influence in France seems almost trifling.” In -Germany “Rousseau became the basis not of a guillotine but of a new -culture (Kultur). … We have drawn his spirit over to us, we have made -it our own.” (121.) See also Professor Eugen Kühnemann, _Vom Weltreich -des deutschen Geistes_ (1914), 54-62, and _passim_. German idealism is, -according to Kühnemann, the monument that does the greatest honor to -Rousseau. - -[126] - - A robin redbreast in a cage - Puts all Heaven in a rage. - … - He who shall hurt the little wren - Shall never be belov’d by men. - He who the ox to wrath has mov’d - Shall never be by woman lov’d. - … - Kill not the moth nor butterfly, - For the Last Judgment draweth nigh. - - _Auguries of Innocence._ - -[127] See _Hart-Leap Well_. - -[128] _Beyond Good and Evil_, ch. IV. - -[129] “Out into distant futures, which no dream hath yet seen, into -warmer souths than ever sculptor conceived. … Let this love be your new -nobility,--the undiscovered in the remotest seas,” etc. (_Thus Spake -Zarathustra_, translated by Thomas Common, 240, 248.) - -[130] “On trouverait, en rétablissant les anneaux intermédiaires de -la chaîne, qu’à Pascal se rattachent les doctrines modernes qui font -passer en première ligne la connaissance immédiate, l’intuition, la vie -intérieure, comme à Descartes … se rattachent plus particulièrement les -philosophies de la raison pure.” _La Science française_ (1915), I, 17. - -[131] Cf. Tennyson: - - Fantastic beauty, such as lurks - In some wild poet when he works - Without a conscience or an aim-- - -[132] Addison writes: - - ’Twas then great Marlbro’s mighty soul was proved, - That, in the shock of changing hosts unmoved, - Amidst confusion, horror, and despair, - Examin’d all the dreadful scenes of war; - In peaceful thought the field of death survey’d. - -So far as Marlborough deserved this praise he was a general in the -grand manner. - -[133] “Beauty resides in due proportion and order,” says Aristotle -(_Poetics_, ch. VII). - -[134] _A Survey of English Literature, 1780-1830_ (1912), II, 191. - -[135] Confucius and the Chinese sages were if anything even more -concerned than Plato or Aristotle with the ethical quality of music. - -[136] Like Bishop Blougram’s his “interest’s on the dangerous edge of -things.” - -[137] - - Does he take inspiration from the church, - Directly make her rule his law of life? - Not he: his own mere impulse guides the man. - … - Such is, for the Augustine that was once, - This Canon Caponsacchi we see now. - - X, 1911-28. - -[138] See X, 1367-68. - -[139] Letter to Joseph d’Ortigue, January 19, 1833. - -[140] Here is an extreme example from Maigron’s manuscript collection -(_Le Romantisme et les mœurs_, 153). A youth forced to be absent -three weeks from the woman he loves writes to her as follows: “Trois -semaines, mon amour, trois semaines loin de toi! … Oh! Dieu m’a maudit! -… Hier j’ai erré toute l’après-midi comme une bête fauve, une bête -traquée. … Dans la forêt, j’ai hurlé, hurlé comme un démon … je me suis -roulé par terre … j’ai broyé sous mes dents des branches que mes mains -avaient arrachées. … Alors, de rage, j’ai pris ma main entre mes dents; -j’ai serré, serré convulsivement; le sang a jailli et j’ai craché au -ciel le morceau de chair vive … j’aurais voulu lui cracher mon cœur.” - -[141] Maxime Du Camp asserts in his _Souvenirs littéraires_ (I, 118) -that this anæmia was due in part to the copious blood-letting to which -the physicians of the time, disciples of Broussais, were addicted. - -[142] This perversion was not unknown to classical antiquity. Cf. -Seneca, _To Lucilius_, XCIX: “Quid turpius quam captare in ipso luctu -voluptatem; et inter lacrymas quoque, quod juvet, quærere?” - -[143] _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Pt. III, Lettre VI. - -[144] _Confessions_, Livre IV. - -[145] _The New Laokoon_, ch. V. - -[146] _Franciscae meæ laudes_, in _Les Fleurs du mal_. - -[147] _Architecture and Painting_, Lecture II. This diatribe may have -been suggested by Byron’s _Don Juan_, Canto XIII, IX-XI: - - Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away: - A single laugh demolished the right arm - Of his own country, etc. - -[148] “Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quærebam quid amarem, amans -amare.” - -[149] Cf. Shelley’s _Alastor_: - - Two eyes, - Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought - And seemed with their serene and azure smiles - To beckon. - -[150] “Some of us have in a prior existence been in love with an -Antigone, and that makes us find no full content in any mortal tie.” -Shelley to John Gisborne, October 22, 1821. - -[151] _Confessions_, Livre XI (1761). - -[152] _Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe_, November, 1817. - -[153] “Je me faisais une félicité de réaliser avec ma sylphide mes -courses fantastiques dans les forêts du Nouveau Monde.” - -_Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe_, December, 1821. - -[154] Peacock has in mind _Childe Harold_, canto IV, CXXI ff. - -[155] Rousseau plans to make a nympholept of his ideal pupil, Emile: -“Il faut que je sois le plus maladroit des hommes si je ne le rends -d’avance passionné sans savoir de quoi”, etc. _Emile_, Liv. IV. - -[156] Cf. René’s letter to Céluta in _Les Natchez_: “Je vous ai tenue -sur ma poitrine au milieu du désert, dans les vents de l’orage, -lorsque, après vous avoir portée de l’autre côté d’un torrent, j’aurais -voulu vous poignarder pour fixer le bonheur dans votre sein, et pour me -punir de vous avoir donné ce bonheur.” - -[157] The romantic lover, it should be observed, creates his dream -companion even less that he may adore her than that she may adore him. - -[158] Walter Bagehot has made an interesting study of the romantic -imagination in his essay on a figure who reminds one in some respects -of Gérard de Nerval--Hartley Coleridge. - -[159] Don Juan bids his servant give a coin to the beggar not for the -love of God but for the love of humanity. - -[160] - - Demandant aux forêts, à la mer, à la plaine, - Aux brises du matin, à toute heure, à tout lieu, - La femme de son âme et de son premier voeu! - Prenant pour fiancée un rêve, une ombre vaine, - Et fouillant dans le cœur d’une hécatombe humaine, - Prêtre désespéré, pour y trouver son Dieu. - - A. de Musset, _Namouna_. - -“Don Juan avait en lui cet amour pour la femme idéale; il a couru le -monde serrant et brisant de dépit dans ses bras toutes les imparfaites -images qu’il croyait un moment aimer; et il est mort épuisé de fatigue, -consumé de son insatiable amour.” Prévost-Paradol, _Lettres_, 149. - -[161] See Scott’s (2d) edition of Swift, XIII, 310. - -[162] - - Aimer c’est le grand point. Qu’importe la maîtresse? - Qu’importe le flacon pourvu qu’on ait l’ivresse? - -[163] It has been said that in the novels of George Sand when a lady -wishes to change her lover God is always there to facilitate the -transfer. - -[164] “Tous les hommes sont menteurs, inconstants, faux, bavards, -hypocrites, orgueilleux ou lâches, méprisables et sensuels; toutes -les femmes sont perfides, artificieuses, vaniteuses, curieuses et -dépravées; le monde n’est qu’un égout sans fond où les phoques les -plus informes rampent et se tordent sur des montagnes de fange; mais -il y a au monde une chose sainte et sublime, c’est l’union de deux de -ces êtres si imparfaits et si affreux. On est souvent trompé en amour; -souvent blessé et souvent malheureux; mais on aime et quand on est sur -le bord de sa tombe, on se retourne pour regarder en arrière, et on se -dit: J’ai souffert souvent, je me suis trompé quelquefois, mais j’ai -aimé. C’est moi qui ai vécu, et non pas un être factice créé par mon -orgueil et mon ennui.” (The last sentence is taken from a letter of -George Sand to Musset.) _On ne badine pas avec l’Amour_, II, 5. - -[165] _Table-Talk. On the Past and Future._ - -[166] _The Plain Speaker. On Reading Old Books._ - -[167] _The Round Table. On the Character of Rousseau._ - -[168] “Aujourd’hui, jour de Pâques fleuries, il y a précisément -cinquante ans de ma première connaissance avec Madame de Warens.” - -[169] Even on his death-bed the hero of Browning’s _Confessions_ gives -himself up to impassionated recollection: - - How sad and bad and mad it was-- - But then, how it was sweet. - -In his _Stances à Madame Lullin_ Voltaire is at least as poetical and -nearer to normal experience: - - Quel mortel s’est jamais flatté - D’un rendez-vous à l’agonie? - -[170] See especially _Lyceum fragment_, no. 108. - -[171] A well-known example of the extreme to which the romanticists -pushed their Fichtean solipsism is the following from the _William -Lovell_ of the youthful Tieck: “Having gladly escaped from anxious -fetters, I now advance boldly through life, absolved from those irksome -duties which were the inventions of cowardly fools. Virtue is, only -because I am; it is but a reflection of my inner self. What care I for -forms whose dim lustre I have myself brought forth? Let vice and virtue -wed. They are only shadows in the mist,” etc. - -[172] _Beyond Good and Evil_, ch. IV. - -[173] _On Contemporary Literature_, 206. The whole passage is excellent. - -[174] M. Legouis makes a similar remark in the _Cambridge History of -English Literature_ XI, 108. - -[175] I scarcely need say that Wordsworth is at times genuinely -ethical, but he is even more frequently only didactic. The _Excursion_, -as M. Legouis says, is a “long sermon against pessimism.” - -[176] “Quia fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum, donec -requiescat in te.” - -[177] _Eth. Nic._, 1177 b. - -[178] Cf. the chapter on _William Law and the Mystics_ in _Cambridge -History of English Literature_, IX, 341-67; also the bibliography of -Boehme, _ibid._, 560-74. - -[179] See _Excursion_, I, VV. 943 ff. - -[180] In his attitude towards sin Novalis continues Rousseau and -anticipates the main positions of the Christian Scientist. - -[181] - - Prune thou thy words, - The thoughts control - That o’er thee swell and throng. - They will condense within the soul - And change to purpose strong. - But he who lets his feelings run - In soft, luxurious flow, - Shrinks when hard service must be done - And faints at every foe. - -[182] Wesley had no liking for Boehme and cut out from Brooke’s book -the theosophy that had this origin. - -[183] Writing was often associated with magic formulæ. Hence γράμμα -also gave Fr. “grimoire.” - -[184] _Thus Spake Zarathustra_, LXIX (The Shadow to Zarathustra). - -[185] _Katha-Upanishad._ The passage is paraphrased as follows by P. E. -More in his _Century of Indian Epigrams_: - - Seated within this body’s car - The silent Self is driven afar, - And the five senses at the pole - Like steeds are tugging restive of control. - - And if the driver lose his way, - Or the reins sunder, who can say - In what blind paths, what pits of fear - Will plunge the chargers in their mad career? - - Drive well, O mind, use all thy art, - Thou charioteer!--O feeling Heart, - Be thou a bridle firm and strong! - For the Lord rideth and the way is long. - -[186] See Brandes: _The Romantic School in Germany_, ch. XI. - -[187] Alfred de Musset saw his double in the stress of his affair with -George Sand (see _Nuit de Décembre_), Jean Valjean (_Les Misérables_) -sees his double in the stress of his conversion. Peter Bell also sees -his double at the emotional crisis in Wordsworth’s poem of that name. - -[188] _Thus Spake Zarathustra_, LXIX. - -[189] F. Schlegel: _Lyceumfragment_, no. 42. - -[190] E.g., canto III, CVII-CXI. - -[191] _Confessions_, Livre XII (1765). - -[192] Cf. Th. Gomperz, _Greek Thinkers_, I, 402. - -[193] Wordsworth: _Miscellaneous Sonnets_, XII. - -[194] In much the same spirit the Japanese hermit, Kamo Chōmei -(thirteenth century), expresses the fear that he may forget Buddha -because of his fondness for the mountains and the moon.--See article on -nature in Japan by M. Revon in _Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics_. - -[195] _Confessions_, Bk. X, ch. IX. - -[196] Cf. Cicero: “Urbem, urbem, mi Rufe, cole et in ista luce vive.” -(_Ad Fam._, II, 22.) - -[197] March 23, 1646. - -[198] It was especially easy for the poets to go for their landscapes -to the painters because according to the current theory poetry was -itself a form of painting (_ut pictura poesis_). Thus Thomson writes in -_The Castle of Indolence_: - - Sometimes the pencil, in cool airy halls, - Bade the gay bloom of vernal landskips rise, - Or autumn’s varied shades embrown the walls: - Now the black tempest strikes the astonish’d eyes; - Now down the steep the flashing torrent flies; - The trembling sun now plays o’er ocean blue, - And now rude mountains frown amid the skies; - Whate’er _Lorrain_ light touch’d with softening hue, - Or savage _Rosa_ dash’d, or learned _Poussin_ drew. - - (C. I, st. 38.) - -[199] - - Disparaissez, monuments du génie, - Pares, jardins immortels, que Le Nôtre a plantés; - De vos dehors pompeux l’exacte symmétrie, - Etonne vainement mes regards attristés. - J’aime bien mieux ce désordre bizarre, - Et la variété de ces riches tableaux - Que disperse l’Anglais d’une main moins avare. - -Bertin, 19e Elégie of _Les Amours_. - -[200] Pt. IV, Lettre XI. - -[201] _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Pt. IV, Lettre XI. - -[202] _Ibid._ - -[203] _Ibid._, Pt. IV, Lettre XVII. - -[204] _Confessions_, Livre V (1732). - -[205] See especially _Childe Harold_, canto II, XXV ff. - -[206] _Ibid._, canto II, XXXVII. - -[207] _Ibid._, canto III, LXXII. - -[208] _Ibid._, canto IV, CLXXVII. - -[209] See _La Perception du changement_, 30. - -[210] ASIA - - My soul is an enchanted boat, - Which like a sleeping swan, doth float - Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; - And thine doth like an angel sit - Beside a helm conducting it, - Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. - It seems to float ever, for ever - Upon that many-winding river, - Between mountains, woods, abysses, - A paradise of wildernesses! - … - Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions - In music’s most serene dominions; - Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. - And we sail on away, afar, - Without a course, without a star, - But by the instinct of sweet music driven; - Till through Elysian garden islets - By thee, most beautiful of pilots, - Where never mortal pinnace glided - The boat of my desire is guided; - Realms where the air we breathe is love-- - - _Prometheus Unbound_, Act II, Sc. V. - -[211] “Si tu souffres plus qu’un autre des choses de la vie, il ne faut -pas t’en étonner; une grande âme doit contenir plus de douleurs qu’une -petite.” - -[212] Cf. Shelley, _Julian and Maddalo_: - - I love all waste - And solitary places; where we taste - The pleasure of believing what we see - Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be. - -[213] Cf. for example, the passage of Rousseau in the seventh -_Promenade_ (“Je sens des extases, des ravissements inexprimables à -me fondre pour ainsi dire dans le système des êtres,” etc.) with the -revery described by Wordsworth in _The Excursion_, I, 200-218. - -[214] O belles, craignez le fond des bois, et leur vaste silence. - -[215] _Faust_ (Miss Swanwick’s translation). - -[216] _Artist and Public_, 134 ff. - -[217] - - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: - What if my leaves are falling like its own! - The tumult of thy mighty harmonies - - Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, - Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, - My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! - Drive my dead thoughts over the universe - Like withered leaves, etc. - -Cf. Lamartine: - - Quand la feuille des bois tombe dans la prairie, - Le vent du soir s’élève et l’arrache aux vallons; - Et moi, je suis semblable à la feuille flétrie; - Emportez-moi comme elle, orageux aquilons. - - _L’Isolement._ - -[218] Cf. Hettner, _Romantische Schule_, 156. - -[219] See appendix on Chinese primitivism. - -[220] G. Duval has written a _Dictionnaire des métaphores de Victor -Hugo_, and G. Lucchetti a work on _Les Images dans les œuvres de Victor -Hugo_. So far as the ethical values are concerned, the latter title is -alone justified. Hugo is, next to Chateaubriand, the great imagist. - -[221] The French like to think of the symbolists as having rendered -certain services to their versification. Let us hope that they did, -though few things are more perilous than this transfer of the idea of -progress to the literary and artistic domain. Decadent Rome, as we -learn from the younger Pliny and others, simply swarmed with poets who -also no doubt indulged in many strange experiments. All this poetical -activity, as we can see only too plainly at this distance, led nowhere. - -[222] Grant Allen writes of the laws of nature in _Magdalen Tower_: - - They care not any whit for pain or pleasure, - That seems to us the sum and end of all, - Dumb force and barren number are their measure, - What shall be shall be, tho’ the great earth fall, - They take no heed of man or man’s deserving, - Reck not what happy lives they make or mar, - Work out their fatal will unswerv’d, unswerving, - And know not that they are! - -[223] Fragment de l’_Art de jouir_, quoted by P.-M. Masson in _La -Religion de J.-J. Rousseau_, II, 228. - -[224] If nature merely reflects back to a man his own image, it follows -that Coleridge’s celebrated distinction between fancy and imagination -has little value, inasmuch as he rests his proof of the unifying -power of the imagination, in itself a sound idea, on the union the -imagination effects between man and outer nature--and this union is on -his own showing fanciful. - -[225] If I had had this consecration Wordsworth says, addressing Peele -Castle, - - I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile, - Amid a world how different from this! - Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; - On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. - … - A Picture had it been of lasting ease, - _Elysian quiet, without toil or strife_, etc. - -_Elegiac Stanzas suggested by a picture of Peele Castle in a storm._ - -[226] Cf. Doudan, _Lettres_, IV, 216: “J’ai parcouru le _Saint-Paul_ -de Renan. Je n’ai jamais vu dans un théologien une si grande -connaissance de la flore orientale. C’est un paysagiste bien supérieur -à Saint-Augustin et à Bossuet. Il sème des résédas, des anémones, des -pâquerettes pour recueillir l’incrédulité.” - -[227] In his _Mal romantique_ (1908) E. Seillière labels the -generations that have elapsed since the rise of Rousseauism as follows: - - 1. Sensibility (_Nouvelle Héloïse_, 1761). - - 2. Weltschmerz (Schiller’s _Æsthetic Letters_, 1795). - - 3. Mal du siècle (Hugo’s _Hernani_, 1830). - - 4. Pessimism (vogue of Schopenhauer and Stendhal, 1865). - - 5. Neurasthenia (culmination of _fin de siècle_ movement, 1900). - -[228] _Eckermann_, September 24, 1827. - -[229] See _La Nuit de Mai_. - -[230] These lines are inscribed on the statue of Musset in front of the -Théâtre Français. Cf. Shelley: - - Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. - -[231] Translation by J. E. Sandys of fragment cited in Stobæus, _Flor._ -CIX, I. - -[232] _Pythian Odes_, III, 20 ff. - -[233] _Pythian Odes_, III, 81-82. - -[234] _Song of the Banjo_, in the _Seven Seas_. - -[235] XVII, 446-47. - -[236] A brief survey of melancholy among the Greeks will be found in -Professor S. H. Butcher’s _Some Aspects of the Greek Genius_. - -[237] The exasperated quest of novelty is one of the main traits -both of the ancient and the modern victim of ennui. See Seneca, _De -Tranquillitate animi_: “Fastidio illis esse cœpit vita, et ipse mundus; -et subit illud rabidorum deliciarum: quousque eadem?” (Cf. La Fontaine: -Il me faut du nouveau, n’en fût-il plus au monde.) - -[238] “A quoi bon m’avoir fait naître avec des facultés exquises pour -les laisser jusqu’à la fin sans emploi? Le sentiment de mon prix -interne en me donnant celui de cette injustice m’en dédommageait en -quelque sorte, et me faisait verser des larmes que j’aimais a laisser -couler.” _Confessions._ Livre IX (1756). - -[239] _Nouvelle Héloise_, Pt. VI, Lettre VIII. - -[240] “Encore enfant par la tête, vous êtes déjà vieux par le cœur.” -_Ibid._ - -[241] See the examples quoted in Arnold: _Essays in Criticism_, Second -Series, 305-06. - -[242] This is the thought of Keats’s _Ode to Melancholy_: - - Ay, in the very temple of Delight - Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine, - Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue - Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine. - -Cf. Chateaubriand: _Essai sur les Révolutions_, Pt. II, ch. LVIII: “Ces -jouissances sont trop poignantes: telle est notre faiblesse, que les -plaisirs exquis deviennent des douleurs,” etc. - -[243] See his sonnet _Les Montreurs_. This type of Rousseauist is -anticipated by “Milord” Bomston in _La Nouvelle Héloïse_. Rousseau -directed the engraver to depict him with “un maintien grave et stoïque -sous lequel il cache avec peine une extrême sensibilité.” - -[244] “Qui es-tu? À coup sûr tu n’es pas un être pétri du même limon et -animé de la même vie que nous! Tu es un ange ou un démon mais tu n’es -pas une créature humaine. … Pourquoi habiter parmi nous, qui ne pouvons -te suffire ni te comprendre?” G. Sand, _Lélia_, I, 11. - -[245] See p. 51. - -[246] See _Lara_, XVIII, XIX, perhaps the best passage that can be -quoted for the Byronic hero. - -[247] Cf. Gautier, _Histoire du romantisme_: “Il était de mode -alors dans l’école romantique d’être pâle, livide, verdâtre, un peu -cadavéreux, s’il était possible. Cela donnait l’air fatal, byronien, -giaour, dévoré par les passions et les remords.” - -[248] Hugo, _Hernani_. - -[249] - - Lorsque, par un décret des puissances suprêmes, - Le Poète apparaît dans ce monde ennuyé, - Sa mère épouvantée et pleine de blasphèmes - Crispe ses poings vers Dieu, qui la prend en pitié. - - _Fleurs du mal: Bénédiction._ - -Cf. _Nouvelle Héloïse_, Pt. III, Lettre XXVI: - -“Ciel inexorable! … O ma mère, pourquoi vous donna-t-il un fils dans sa -colère?” - -[250] Coleridge has a side that relates him to the author of _Les -Fleurs du mal_. In his _Pains of Sleep_ he describes a dream in which -he felt - - Desire with loathing strangely mix’d, - _On wild or hateful objects fix’d_. - -[251] Keats according to Shelley was an example of the _poète maudit_. -“The poor fellow” he says “was literally hooted from the stage of -life.” Keats was as a matter of fact too sturdy to be snuffed out by an -article and had less of the quivering Rousseauistic sensibility than -Shelley himself. Cf. letter of Shelley to Mrs. Shelley (Aug. 7, 1820): -“Imagine my despair of good, imagine how it is possible that one of -so weak and sensitive a nature as mine can run further the gauntlet -through this hellish society of men.” - -[252] Euripides speaks of the Χάρις γόων in his Ἱκέτιδες (Latin, -“dolendi voluptas”; German, “die Wonne der Wehmut”). - -[253] Chesterton is anticipated in this paradox by Wordsworth: - - In youth we love the darksome lawn - Brushed by the owlet’s wing. - Then Twilight is preferred to Dawn - And autumn to the spring. - Sad fancies do we then affect - In luxury of disrespect - To our own prodigal excess - Of too familiar happiness. - - _Ode to Lycoris._ - -[254] _Souvenirs d’enfance et de jeunesse_, 329-30. - -[255] “[Villiers] était de cette famille des néo-catholiques -littéraires dont Chateaubriand est le père commun, et qui a produit -Barbey d’Aurevilly, Baudelaire et plus récemment M. Joséphin Peladan. -Ceux-là ont goûté par-dessus tout dans la religion les charmes du -péché, la grandeur du sacrilège, et leur sensualisme a caressé les -dogmes qui ajoutaient aux voluptés la suprême volupté de se perdre.” A. -France, _Vie Littéraire_, III, 121. - -[256] _Première Promenade._ - -[257] _Ibid._ - -[258] E.g., Hölderlin and Jean Polonius. - -[259] A striking passage on solitude will be found in the _Laws of -Manu_, IV, 240-42. (“Alone a being is born: alone he goes down to -death.” His kin forsake him at the grave; his only hope then is in the -companionship of the Law of righteousness [Dharma]. “With the Law as -his companion he crosses the darkness difficult to cross.”) - -[260] “Be good and you will be lonely.” - -[261] In the poem by the Swiss poet C. Didier from which Longfellow’s -poem seems to be derived, the youth who persists in scaling the heights -in spite of all warnings is Byron! - - Et Byron … disparaît aux yeux du pâtre épouvanté. - -(See E. Estève, _Byron en France_, 147). - -[262] In the _Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe_ Chateaubriand quotes from the -jottings of Napoleon on the island of Elba. “Mon cœur se refuse aux -joies communes comme à la douleur ordinaire.” He says of Napoleon -elsewhere in the same work: “Au fond il ne tenait à rien: homme -solitaire, il se suffisait; le malheur ne fit que le rendre au désert -de sa vie.” - -[263] The solitude of the “genius” is already marked in Blake: - - O! why was I born with a different face? - Why was I not born like the rest of my race? - When I look, each one starts; when I speak, I offend; - Then I’m silent and passive and lose every friend. - -[264] Froude’s _Carlyle_, II, 377. - -[265] No finer lines on solitude are found in English than those in -which Wordsworth relates how from his room at Cambridge he could look -out on - - The antechapel where the statue stood - Of Newton with his prism and silent face, - The marble index of a mind for ever - Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone. - - (_Prelude_ III, 61-63.) - -Cf. also the line in the Sonnet on Milton: - - His soul was like a star and dwelt apart. - -[266] _Eth. Nic._, 1109 b. - -[267] James Thomson in _The City of Dreadful Night_ says that he would -have entered hell - - gratified to gain - That positive eternity of pain - Instead of this insufferable inane. - -[268] R. Canat has taken this phrase as the title of his treatment of -the subject: _La Solitude morale dans le mouvement romantique_. - -[269] Decadent Rome had the equivalent of Des Esseintes. Seneca (_To -Lucilius_, CXXII) speaks of those who seek to affirm their originality -and attract attention to themselves by doing everything differently -from other people and, “ut ita dicam, _retro vivunt_.” - -[270] Tennyson has traced this change of the æsthetic dream into a -nightmare in his _Palace of Art_. - -[271] _Contemporains_, I, 332. - -[272] _Génie du Christianisme_, Pt. II, Livre III, ch. IX. - -[273] - - L’orage est dans ma voix, l’éclair est sur ma bouche; - Aussi, loin de m’aimer, voilà qu’ils tremblent tous, - Et quand j’ouvre les bras, on tombe à mes genoux. - -[274] - - Que vous ai-je donc fait pour être votre élu? - … - Hélas! je suis, Seigneur, puissant et solitaire, - Laissez-moi m’endormir du sommeil de la terre! - -[275] - - Le juste opposera le dédain à l’absence - Et ne répondra plus que par un froid silence - Au silence éternel de la Divinité. - -[276] See Sainte-Beuve’s poetical epistle _A. M. Villemain_ (_Pensées -d’Août 1837_). - -[277] See _Masters of Modern French Criticism_, 233, 238. - -[278] Wordsworth writes - - A piteous lot it were to flee from man - Yet not rejoice in Nature. - - (_Excursion_, IV, 514.) - -This lot was Vigny’s: - - Ne me laisse jamais seul avec la Nature - Car je la connais trop pour n’en avoir pas peur. - -[279] Madame Dorval. - -[280] _La Maison du Berger._ Note that in Wordsworth the “still sad -music of humanity” is very closely associated with nature. - -[281] _La Bouteille à la Mer._ - -[282] See Book IX of the _Nicomachean Ethics_. - -[283] “All salutary conditions have their root in strenuousness” -(appamāda), says Buddha. - -[284] See _Masters of Modern French Criticism_, Essay on Taine, -_passim_. Paul Bourget in his _Essais de Psychologie contemporaine_ (2 -vols.) has followed out during this period the survivals of the older -romantic melancholy and their reinforcement by scientific determinism. - -[285] “Le pauvre M. Arago, revenant un jour de l’Hôtel de Ville en 1848 -après une épouvantable émeute, disait tristement à l’un de ses aides -de camp au ministère de la marine: ‘En vérité ces gens-là ne sont pas -raisonnables.’” Doudan, _Lettres_, IV, 338. - -[286] See Preface (pp. viii-ix) to his _Souvenirs d’enfance et de -jeunesse_ and my comment in _The New Laokoon_, 207-08. - -[287] Most of the political implications of the point of view I am -developing I am reserving for a volume I have in preparation to be -entitled _Democracy and Imperialism_. Some of my conclusions will be -found in two articles in the (New York) _Nation: The Breakdown of -Internationalism_ (June 17 and 24, 1915), and _The Political Influence -of Rousseau_ (Jan. 18, 1917). - -[288] _Reden an die deutsche Nation_, XII. - -[289] I should perhaps allow for the happiness that may be experienced -in moments of supernormal consciousness--something quite distinct from -emotional or other intoxication. Fairly consistent testimony as to -moments of this kind is found in the records of the past from the early -Buddhists down to Tennyson. - -[290] I scarcely need say that I am speaking of the man of science only -in so far as he is purely naturalistic in his point of view. There may -enter into the total personality of Edison or any particular man of -science other and very different elements. - -[291] M. René Berthelot has written a book on pragmatism and similar -tendencies in contemporary philosophy entitled _Un Romantisme -utilitaire_. I have not read it but the title alone is worth more than -most books on the subject I have read. - -[292] _Dedication of the Æneis_ (1697). - -[293] _Adventure of one Hans Pfaal._ - -[294] His attempt to rewrite _Hyperion_ from a humanitarian point of -view is a dismal failure. - -[295] There is also a strong idyllic element in _Paradise Lost_ as -Rousseau (_Emile_, V) and Schiller (_Essay on Naïve and Sentimental -Poetry_) were among the first to point out. Critics may be found even -to-day who, like Tennyson, prefer the passages which show a richly -pastoral imagination to the passages where the ethical imagination -is required but where it does not seem to prevail sufficiently over -theology. - -[296] XII, 74. - -[297] _Three Philosophical Poets_, 188. - -[298] After telling of the days when “il n’y avait pour moi ni passé -ni avenir et je goûtais à la fois les délices de mille siècles,” -Saint-Preux concludes: “Hélas! vous avez disparu comme un éclair. Cette -éternité de bonheur ne fut qu’un instant de ma vie. Le temps a repris -sa lenteur dans les moments de mon désespoir, et l’ennui mesure par -longues années le reste infortuné de mes jours” (_Nouvelle Héloïse_, -Pt. III, Lettre VI). - -[299] The Church, so far as it has become humanitarian, has itself -succumbed to naturalism. - -[300] _Sutta of the Great Decease._ - -[301] If a man recognizes the supreme rôle of fiction or illusion in -life while proceeding in other respects on Kantian principles, he -will reach results similar to the “As-if Philosophy” (_Philosophie -des Als Ob_) of Vaihinger, a leading authority on Kant and co-editor -of the _Kantstudien_. This work, though not published until 1911, was -composed, the author tells us in his preface, as early as 1875-78. It -will be found to anticipate very strikingly pragmatism and various -other isms in which philosophy has been proclaiming so loudly of late -its own bankruptcy. - -[302] “C’est en vain qu’on voudrait assigner à la vie un but, au sens -humain du mot.” _L’Evolution créatrice_, 55. - -[303] _Metaphysics_, 1078 b. - -[304] In the beginning was the Word! To seek to substitute, like Faust, -the Deed for the Word is to throw discrimination to the winds. The -failure to discriminate as to the _quality_ of the deed is responsible -for the central sophistry of _Faust_ (see p. 331) and perhaps of our -modern life in general. - -[305] “J’adore la liberté; j’abhorre la gêne, la peine, -l’assujettissement.” _Confessions_, Livre I. - -[306] _Analects_, XI, CXI. Cf. _ibid._, VI, CXX: “To give one’s self -earnestly to the duties due to men, and while respecting spiritual -beings, to keep aloof from them, may be called wisdom.” Much that has -passed current as religion in all ages has made its chief appeal, not -to awe but to wonder; and like many humanists Confucius was somewhat -indifferent to the marvellous. “The subjects on which the Master did -not talk were: extraordinary things, feats of strength, disorder and -spiritual beings” (_ibid._, VII, CXX). - -[307] One of the last Chinese, I am told, to measure up to the -Confucian standard was Tsêng Kuo-fan (1811-1872) who issued forth -from poverty, trained a peasant soldiery and, more than any other one -person, put down the Taiping Rebellion. - -[308] See J. Barthélemy Saint-Hilaire’s Introduction to his translation -of the _Nicomachean Ethics_, p. cxlix. - -[309] _Eth. Nic._, 1122-25. - -[310] I have in mind such passages as _P._, VIII, 76-78, 92-96; _N._, -VI, 1-4; _N._, XI, 13-16. - -[311] “II n’y eut jamais pour moi d’intermédiaire entre tout et rien.” -_Confessions_, Livre VII. - -[312] Some wag, it will be remembered, suggested as an alternative -title for this work: _Wild Religions I have known_. - -[313] _Letters_, II, 298; cf. _ibid._, 291: “I have never known a life -less wisely controlled or less helped by the wisdom of others than his. -The whole retrospect of it is pathetic; waste, confusion, ruin of one -of the most gifted and sweetest natures the world ever knew.” - -[314] _Nic. Eth._, 1145 b. The opposition between Socrates or Plato -and Aristotle, when put thus baldly, is a bit misleading. Socrates -emphasized the importance of practice (μελέτη) in the acquisition of -virtue, and Plato has made much of habit in the _Laws_. - -[315] _Analects_, II, CIV. - -[316] This belief the Oriental has embodied in the doctrine of Karma. - -[317] “La seule habitude qu’on doit laisser prendre à l’enfant est de -n’en contractor aucune.” _Emile_, Livre I. - -[318] Emile was to be trained to be a cabinet-maker. - -[319] _Eth. Nic._, 1172 b. - -[320] _Doctrine of the Mean_ (c. XXXIII, v. 2). - -[321] See his poem _Ibo_ in _Les Contemplations_. - -[322] La. 55, p. 51. (In my references La. stands for Lao-tzŭ, Li. for -Lieh-tzŭ, Ch. for Chuang-tzŭ. The first number gives the chapter; the -second number the page in Wieger’s edition.) - -[323] Ch. 22 C, p. 391. - -[324] Ch. 12 n, p. 305. - -[325] Ch. 11 D, p. 291. Ibid. 15, p. 331. See also Li. 31, p. 113. - -[326] Ch. 19 B, p. 357. - -[327] Ch. 19 L, p. 365. - -[328] Ch. 10, pp. 279-80. - -[329] Ch. 9, pp. 274-75. - -[330] Ch. 29, pp. 467 ff. - -[331] Ch. 2, p. 223. - -[332] La. 27, p. 37. - -[333] Ch. 8 A, p. 271. - -[334] Li. 5, p. 143. - -[335] Ch. 14 C, p. 321. - -[336] For an extreme form of Epicureanism see the ideas of Yang-chu, -Li. 7, pp. 165 ff. For stoical apathy see Ch. 6 C., p. 253. For fate -see Li. 6, p. 165, Ch. 6 K, p. 263. - -[337] Ch. 33, pp. 499 ff. - -[338] Ch. 33 C, p. 503. - -[339] Bk. III, Part 2, ch. 9. - -[340] Li. 3, p. 111. Ch. 24, pp. 225-27. - -[341] Ch. 6 E, p. 255. - -[342] See _The Religion of the Samurai: a Study of Zen Philosophy_ -(1913) by Kaiten Nukariya (himself a Zenist), p. 23. - - - - -INDEX OF NAMES - - - Abelard, 238. - - Addison, 12, 35, 37, 38, 202 _n._ - - Æschylus, 292, 359. - - Ajax, 144. - - Allen, Grant, 299 _n._ - - Amiel, 315. - - Ananda, 370. - - Angélique, Mother, 123. - - d’Angoulême, Marguerite, 251. - - Antisthenes, 244. - - Apollonius of Rhodes, 104. - - Aquinas, St. Thomas, 101, 112. - - Arago, 244 _n._ - - Ariosto, 264. - - Aristophanes, 181, 243, 285. - - Aristotle, xv _n._, xix, xxi, xxii, 4, 12 _n._, 15-19, 24, 28 - _n._, 29, 33, 47, 148, 166, 171, 173, 202, 205 _n._, 211, 222, - 237, 253, 254, 295, 329, 330, 343, 349, 354, 355, 363, 365, - 372, 374, 381, 382, 385, 386, 389, 390. - - Arnold, Matthew, xi, 281, 308, 315 _n._, 323, 325, 351. - - Augustine, St., 116, 213, 224, 252, 273, 304 _n._ - - - Bacon, F., xxi _n._, 26, 63, 64, 119, 122. - - Bacon, Roger, 26. - - Bagehot, W., 25, 41, 159, 231 _n._, 377. - - Balzac, 11, 58, 106, 107, 192, 193. - - Barbauld, Mrs., 154. - - Barbey d’Aurevilly, 92, 324. - - Baudelaire, 63, 222, 230, 251, 319, 321, 324 _n._, 332, 350. - - Bayle, Pierre, 114. - - Beaumarchais, 2. - - Bergson, Henri, xii, xiii, 1, 147, 167, 186, 200, 281, 295, - 300, 364, 372. - - Berlioz, 79, 112, 162, 211, 215. - - Berthelot, René, 350 _n._ - - Bertin, Edouard, 275 _n._ - - Blake, William, 47, 94, 152, 168, 196, 197, 242, 254-256, 297, - 327 _n._ - - Boehme, Jacob, 46, 254, 255, 258. - - Boileau, 5, 11, 16, 20, 21, 27, 66, 76, 87, 268. - - Bossuet, 251, 304 _n._, 392. - - Boswell, 356. - - Boufflers, Mme. de, 129. - - Bourget, Paul, xvi, 343 _n._ - - Bowles, Samuel, 101. - - Brandes, G., 262 _n._ - - Brooke, Henry, 258. - - Broussais, 215 _n._ - - Browne, Sir Thomas, 286. - - Brownell, W. C., 67. - - Browning, Robert, 211-213, 216, 217, 234, 236 _n._, 287, 307. - - Brunetière, F., 28. - - Buddha, xix-xxi, 149-153, 272 _n._, 343, 349, 367, 370, 372, - 381. - - Buffon, 56, 57, 66. - - Bulwer-Lytton, 62. - - Bunyan, 133. - - Burke, Edmund, 128, 142, 147, 346, 380. - - Burns, Robert, 229. - - Burton, 143 _n._ - - Butcher, S. H., 312 _n._ - - Byrom, John, 257, 258. - - Byron, 54, 101, 161 _n._, 181, 186, 220, 223 _n._, 228, 229, - 232, 266, 269, 280, 283, 308, 318, 322, 324, 327 _n._ - - - Calvin, 118. - - Canat, R., 332 _n._ - - Carlyle, 52, 53, 147, 154, 159 _n._, 193, 300, 309, 327-329. - - Catullus, 229, 285. - - Cervantes, 99, 176, 223, 224, 264. - - Cézanne, 63. - - Chapelain, 28. - - Charpentier, Julie von, 226. - - Chateaubriand, 50, 54, 57, 58, 60, 61, 91, 126, 134, 151, 155, - 159 _n._, 206, 207, 209, 227-229, 232, 249, 252, 276-278, 281, - 283-285, 297 _n._, 304, 309, 310, 313, 316 _n._, 318, 322, 324 - _n._, 327 _n._, 333, 334. - - Chatterton, 90, 320, 321. - - Chaucer, 334. - - Chesterfield, 24, 25. - - Chesterton, G., 322. - - Christ (Jesus), 36, 52, 115, 254, 265, 304, 336, 359, 360, 379. - - Cicero, xxii, 134, 273 _n._ - - Clifford, W. K., 138, 139. - - Coleridge, Hartley, 231 _n._ - - Coleridge, Samuel T., 51, 52, 126, 146 _n._, 154, 159 _n._, - 181, 296, 303, 305, 319 _n._ - - Common, T., 198 _n._ - - Confucius, xix-xxi, 176, 211 _n._, 380, 386, 390. - - Congreve, 35 _n._ - - Constant, Benjamin, 316. - - Cortez, F., 277. - - Cowley, 12. - - Cox, Kenyon, 64 _n._, 291. - - Croce, Benedetto, xiii. - - - Dante, 112, 215, 259, 357, 358. - - Daunou, 99. - - Davidson, John, 90. - - Descartes, xvi, 26, 27, 138, 168, 169, 172, 176, 200. - - Dewey, John, xiii, 388. - - Diderot, xi, xii, 38, 70, 100, 122, 126, 130, 191, 192, 326. - - Didier, C., 327 _n._ - - Disraeli, 62. - - Dorval, Mme., 337 _n._ - - Doudan, 214, 304 _n._, 344 _n._ - - Dryden, 13, 34, 223, 353, 354. - - Du Camp, M., 215 _n._ - - Duff, 40 _n._ - - D’Urfé, 76. - - Duval, G., 297 _n._ - - - Eckermann, 96, 309. - - Edison, 350. - - Edwards, Jonathan, 123, 124, 139. - - Elton, O., 206. - - Emerson, R. W., x, 67, 93, 111, 176, 257, 348. - - Epicurus, 270. - - Euripides, 183, 204, 244, 322 _n._ - - Evelyn, 6, 274. - - - Faguet, E., 30. - - Fawcett, E. D., xv _n._ - - Fichte, 241, 347. - - FitzGerald, 204. - - Flaubert, xvi _n._, 67, 87, 105, 107-109, 218, 299, 314, - 339-342. - - Fontenelle, 27. - - Foster, John, 8, 9, 96. - - France, A., 88, 265, 324 _n._, 370. - - Francis, St., 222. - - François, A. F., 7 _n._ - - Francueil, Mme. de, 155. - - Froude, 309, 327 _n._ - - - Galileo, 119. - - Galsworthy, John, 252. - - Gautier, T., 60, 61, 67, 93 _n._, 108, 230, 318 _n._, 320, 341. - - Geffroy, A., 129 _n._ - - Gerard, A., 40 _n._ - - Gérard de Nerval, 230, 231 _n._ - - Gerould, Katherine F., 49 _n._ - - Gisborne, John, 227 _n._, 391. - - Gissing, George, 309. - - Godard, Colonel, 73. - - Godwin, Mary, 226. - - Goethe, xi, xvii, xviii, 2, 19, 22, 23, 32, 73, 85, 86, 89, 92, - 96, 101, 103 _n._, 147, 170, 171, 192, 215, 224, 246, 252, 275, - 309, 310, 331, 339, 346, 360-363, 378, 389. - - Gomperz, Th., 268 _n._ - - Gran, Gerhard, 78 _n._ - - Gray, 311, 323. - - Greville, F., 6. - - Grillparzer, 191. - - Grimm, H., 360. - - Guérin, M. de, 281, 342. - - Gustavus III, 129. - - - Hardy, T., 191. - - Havemeyer, H. O., 141. - - Hawthorne, N., 67, 326, 327. - - Hazlitt, 97, 181, 186 _n._, 224, 235, 236, 289. - - Hearn, Lafcadio, 111. - - Heidigger, 7, 8. - - Heine, 31, 221, 265. - - Hensel, P., 194 _n._ - - Heraclitus, xiii _n._ - - Herder, 97, 98. - - Herford, C. H., 359. - - Herondas, 104. - - Hettner, H., 194 _n._, 292 _n._ - - Hitchener, Elizabeth, 266. - - Hobbes, 12, 13, 131, 192, 196, 197. - - Hoffmann, E. T. A., 86, 262. - - Hölderlin, 81, 82, 86, 90, 98, 110, 325 _n._ - - Homer, 38, 80, 92, 144, 146, 208, 295, 311, 312, 391. - - Horace, 24, 36, 77, 81, 115, 285, 379, 391. - - d’Houdetot, Mme., 227. - - Huch, Ricarda, 184, 261. - - Hugo, 50, 52, 57, 59, 94, 140-142, 146, 189, 190, 213, 214, - 236, 297 _n._, 307 _n._, 318 _n._, 340, 392, 393. - - Hurd, 31. - - Hutcheson, 44, 121, 131, 179. - - Huysmans, 332. - - - Ibsen, H., 330. - - - James, W., xiii, 78, 181, 183, 384. - - Johnson, Dr. Samuel, xx, 12, 21, 25, 33, 46, 50, 69, 71, 72, - 91, 174, 223, 256, 348, 356, 357, 360, 362, 370. - - Jonson, Ben, 209. - - Joubert, 134, 158, 172 _n._, 179, 221, 253, 314, 393. - - - Kamo Chōmei, 272 _n._ - - Kant, xvi, 40, 42, 43, 70, 370. - - Keats, 316 _n._, 321 _n._, 357, 358, 360. - - Keble, 285. - - Kepler, 119. - - Kipling, 312. - - Kleist, H. von, 160 _n._ - - Kühn, Sophie von, 226. - - Kühnemann, E., 194 _n._ - - - La Bruyère, 11, 125. - - La Fontaine, 71, 72, 157, 285, 313 _n._ - - La Harpe, 100. - - Lamartine, 61, 103, 126, 187, 236, 279, 281, 292 _n._, 310. - - Lamb, Charles, 91, 92, 209. - - La Motte Houdard, 55. - - Lanson, Gustave, xvii, xviii. - - La Place, 138. - - La Rochefoucauld, 160. - - Lasserre, Pierre, 140. - - Law, 258. - - Leconte de Lisle, xiv, 149, 299, 317, 324, 341, 365. - - Legouis, E., 249 _n._, 250 _n._ - - Lemaître, Jules, 106, 127, 141, 155, 332. - - Lenau, 91. - - Lenclos, Ninon de, 307. - - Le Nôtre, 275. - - Leopardi, 238. - - Levasseur, Thérèse, 78, 220, 224. - - Levet, 356. - - Lillo, 190 _n._ - - Lionardo da Vinci, 117. - - Littré, 234. - - Locke, 12, 26, 32. - - Longfellow, H. W., 327 _n._ - - Longinus, 37. - - Lorrain, C., 274 _n._ - - Loti, Pierre, 232. - - Louis XIV, 154. - - Lowell, J. R., 10, 270, 286, 287. - - Lucchetti, G., 297 _n._ - - Lucretius, 270. - - - Maeterlinck, 52, 295, 296. - - Maigron, L., xvi, 61 _n._, 215 _n._ - - Malherbe, 11. - - Malesherbes, de, 84. - - Manu, 326 _n._ - - Marat, 340. - - Marinetti, 208. - - Marini, Cavalier, 353. - - Marlborough, 202 _n._ - - Mary, the Virgin, 221, 222. - - Masson, P. M., 302, 303 _n._, 304. - - Mather, F. J., Jr., 192. - - Maupassant, 203. - - Mazzini, 338. - - Mercier, 100. - - Meredith, J. C., 40 _n._ - - Mérimée, P., 203. - - Michelet, 209. - - Milton, 22, 25, 114, 323, 328 _n._, 358. - - Mirabeau, Bailli de, 74. - - Mohammed, 91. - - Molière, 29, 30, 76, 214, 231, 268. - - Montaigne, 260. - - Moore, George, 128. - - More, Henry, 109. - - More, Paul Elmer, 261 _n._ - - Mulgrave, 13. - - Musset, A. de, 126, 161 _n._, 214, 216, 231 _n._, 232-234, 236, - 262 _n._, 310, 311, 328, 338. - - - Napoleon, 24, 58, 138, 317, 327, 330, 346. - - Nero, 313. - - Newman, Cardinal, 258, 272, 391, 392. - - Newton, 2, 26, 27, 41. - - Nietzsche, 25, 95, 144, 197-199, 242, 245, 246, 250, 260, 263, - 327, 352. - - Nisard, D., 23. - - Norton, C. E., 90, 158, 163, 384. - - Novalis, 74, 86, 94, 99 _n._, 110, 166, 186 _n._, 226, 241, - 256, 262, 300. - - - d’Ortigue, J., 215 _n._ - - Osborn, Henry Fairfield, 295, 296. - - Ossian, 38, 276. - - Ovid, 92, 129. - - - Parmenides, xiii _n._ - - Pascal, 8, 24, 28-30, 53, 71, 123, 138, 151, 167, 177, 178, - 200, 246, 266, 304, 375, 393. - - Pater, W., 292. - - Paul, St., 78, 349. - - Peacock, 229. - - Peladan, Joséphin, 324 _n._ - - Pepys, 6 _n._ - - Pericles, 24, 60. - - Perrault, 27. - - Peterborough, Earl of, 232. - - Peter the Hermit, 222. - - Petit de Julleville, 188. - - Petrarch, xi, xii, 224, 273. - - Pindar, 38, 182, 311, 316, 382. - - Plato, xiii, xx, 29, 146, 161, 166, 171, 211 _n._, 220, 221, - 253, 294, 359, 360, 385. - - Pliny, the Younger, 298 _n._ - - Plotinus, 171 _n._, 254. - - Plutarch, 84. - - Poe, E. A., 50, 63, 230, 292, 321, 326, 354, 355. - - Polonius, Jean, 325 _n._ - - Pope, 6 _n._, 12, 25, 33, 34, 38, 91, 174, 177, 268. - - Poussin, 274 _n._ - - Prévost-Paradol, 231 _n._ - - - Rabelais, 117, 268. - - Racine, 100. - - Racowitza, Princess von, 62 _n._ - - Radcliffe, Anne, 106. - - Rambouillet, Marquise de, 75. - - Raphael, 289, 290. - - Rashdall, Hastings, 131 _n._ - - Rawnsley, Canon, 328. - - Régnier, M., 62. - - Renan, xi, 133, 183, 203, 238, 251, 265, 304, 323, 342, 344, - 345. - - Revon, M., 272 _n._ - - Richardson, 208. - - Richter, Jean Paul, 93, 264. - - Ritter, E., 134 _n._ - - Rivarol, xxiii, 215, 225. - - Robespierre, M., 135, 136, 180, 340. - - Rochambeau, 278. - - Ronsard, 11. - - Rosa, Salvator, 274. - - Rostand, 76 _n._, 89, 295. - - Rouge, I., 96 _n._ - - Rousseau, ix, xv _n._, xvii, xviii, 1, 5, 7, 23-25, 30, 32, 34, - 43-45, 47, 50, 54, 58, 60, 61, 63, 68, 70, 72-82, 85-87, 90, - 93, 97, 98, 102-104, 106-108, 110-112, 114, 115, 117, 119, 122, - 123, 126-132, 135, 136, 140, 143, 144, 147, 153-158, 160-167, - 174, 175, 179-181, 183, 185, 187, 188, 193-197, 210, 216, 218, - 220, 221, 224, 227, 229, 234, 236, 245, 247, 248, 253, 256, - 258, 263, 267, 269, 270, 275, 278, 279, 281, 282, 284-286, 289, - 292, 300, 302, 303, 305-307, 309, 314, 317 _n._, 322, 325, 326, - 330, 331, 342, 345-349, 352, 358 _n._, 361, 362, 364, 370, 373, - 375, 377, 379, 380, 382, 383, 386-388. - - Ruskin, 83, 90, 158, 163, 164, 269, 279, 290, 301, 328, 384. - - Rymer, T., 13, 14. - - - Sainte-Beuve, xi, 14, 50, 57, 58, 93 _n._, 305, 313, 333, 336, - 342. - - Saint-Evremond, 39, 166. - - Saint-Hilaire, Geoffroy, 270. - - Saint-Hilaire, J. Barthélemy, 381 _n._ - - Saint-Pierre, B. de, 122. - - Sand, George, 107, 232, 233 _n._, 262 _n._, 318 _n._, 328, - 338-342, 344. - - Sandys, J. E., 311 _n._ - - Santayana, G., 77, 361. - - Sappho, 229. - - Sargent, John, 291. - - Scaliger, 19, 144, 146, 273. - - Schelling, 293-295. - - Schiller, 43, 44, 70, 77, 80-82, 96-98, 102, 110, 112, 129, 132 - _n._, 140, 141, 241, 307 _n._, 312, 330, 358 _n._ - - Schlegel, A. W., 92, 94-97, 101, 149, 241, 293. - - Schlegel, F., 95-99, 148, 149, 182, 241, 242, 245, 251, 263-265 - _n._ - - Schomberg, Marshal, 73. - - Schopenhauer, 149, 307 _n._ - - Scott, Walter, 232 _n._, 260. - - Seillière, E., 194 _n._, 307 _n._ - - Senancour, 308, 315, 323. - - Seneca, 216 _n._, 313 _n._, 332 _n._ - - Shackleton, Sir Ernest, 277. - - Shadwell, T., 6 _n._ - - Shaftesbury, 44, 45, 121, 122, 131, 179, 196, 197, 207, 253, - 257, 294, 324, 357. - - Shakespeare, 21 _n._, 33, 38, 41, 99, 208, 264, 281, 290, 295. - - Shelley, 82, 137, 161, 180, 196, 206, 224, 225 _n._-228, 256, - 266, 282-284 _n._, 291, 310 _n._, 321 _n._, 358-360, 376, 391. - - Shelley, Mrs., 161, 321 _n._ - - Sherman, Stuart P., 243. - - Shute, R., xxii _n._ - - Sidney, Sir Phillip, 6, 18. - - Smith, Horace, 227. - - Socrates, 1, 112, 146, 147, 175, 195, 242-245, 266, 272, 356, - 362, 374, 375, 385. - - Solomon, 295. - - Solon, xxi. - - Sophocles, 23, 48, 53, 174, 204, 358, 360. - - Spingarn, J. E., 65 _n._ - - Staël, Mme. de, 45, 99, 101, 132 _n._, 306, 316. - - Stedman, E. C., 230. - - Steele, 6 _n._, 127 _n._ - - Stendhal, 192, 213, 307 _n._, 317. - - Stephen, Leslie, 82 _n._, 107, 258. - - Sterne, L., 144. - - Stobæus, 311 _n._ - - Swanwick, Miss, 288 _n._ - - Swift, 8, 266, 267. - - Synge, 243. - - - Tagore, 149. - - Taine, 28, 89, 170, 188, 237, 275, 337, 343 _n._ - - Talleyrand, 24, 25. - - Tasso, 85, 89. - - Taylor, Jeremy, 115. - - Tennyson, 92, 197, 202 _n._, 312, 332 _n._, 348 _n._, 358, 393. - - Theocritus, 238, 281, 285. - - Thiers, 321. - - Thomson, James (author of _The Seasons_), 8, 274 _n._ - - Thomson, James (“B.V.”), 332 _n._ - - Tiberius, 313. - - Tieck, 94, 159 _n._, 241 _n._, 243, 292. - - Titian, 291. - - Tolstoy, 197, 198, 352. - - Tsêng Kuo-fan, 381 _n._ - - Turner, 290. - - Twain, Mark, 326. - - - Uhland, 293. - - - Vaihinger, H., 370. - - Vida, 144. - - Vidal, Pierre, 238. - - Vigny, A. de., 186 _n._, 305, 320, 324, 335-338, 365. - - Villemain, 336 _n._ - - Villers, 45. - - Villiers de l’Isle Adam, 88, 322, 324 _n._ - - Villon, 238. - - Violet, 278. - - Virgil, 19, 271, 312, 354, 377. - - Viviani, Emilia, 228. - - Voltaire, 32-34, 39, 93 _n._, 100, 103, 119, 177, 216, 236 - _n._, 369. - - - Wackenroder, 86. - - Wagner, 170, 210, 230. - - Wallace, E., 12 _n._ - - Walpole, H., 127, 314. - - Walzel, O. F., 52 _n._, 160 _n._ - - Ward, Wilfrid, 62 _n._ - - Warens, Mme. de, 74, 134 _n._, 135, 236. - - Wellington, 386. - - Wesley, John, 258. - - West, Richard, 323. - - Westbrook, Harriet, 226. - - Whitman, Walt, 137, 166, 286, 349. - - Wilde, Oscar, 238. - - Williams, Mrs., 226. - - Wolseley, R., 65. - - Wordsworth, xvii, 1, 52, 74, 83, 91, 92 _n._, 145, 146, 166 - _n._, 171, 197, 237, 247-250 _n._, 256, 262 _n._, 272, 277, - 279, 283-285, 293, 296, 301-303, 322 _n._, 328, 337 _n._, 343, - 351. - - - Xenophon, 175 _n._ - - - Yalden, 50. - - Yeats, W. B., 149. - - Young, E., 37, 38, 40. - - - Zola, 58, 103, 106, 107, 187, 220. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROUSSEAU AND ROMANTICISM*** - - -******* This file should be named 50235-0.txt or 50235-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/0/2/3/50235 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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