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Transcriber's note: Italics are indicated by _underscores_ and boldface
by =equals signs=. A complete Index of all 20 volumes of THE WORLD'S
GREATEST BOOKS will be found at the end of this volume.




[Illustration: (signed) Matthew Arnold]




    THE WORLD'S
    GREATEST
    BOOKS


    JOINT EDITORS

    ARTHUR MEE
    Editor and Founder of the Book of Knowledge

    J. A. HAMMERTON
    Editor of Harmsworth's Universal Encyclopaedia


    VOL. XX

    MISCELLANEOUS
    LITERATURE

    INDEX


    WM. H. WISE & CO.




_Table of Contents_


  PORTRAIT OF MATTHEW ARNOLD                    _Frontispiece_

  ADDISON, JOSEPH                                         PAGE
      Spectator                                              1

  ÆSOP
      Fables                                                10

  ARNOLD, MATTHEW
      Essays in Criticism                                   18

  BRANDES, GEORGE
      Main Currents of Nineteenth Century Literature        31

  BURTON, ROBERT
      Anatomy of Melancholy                                 41

  CARLYLE, THOMAS
      On Heroes and Hero Worship                            50
      Sartor Resartus                                       61

  CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS
      Concerning Friendship                                 70

  COBBETT, WILLIAM
      Advice to Young Men                                   78

  DEFOE, DANIEL
      Journal of the Plague Year                            90

  DESMOSTHENES
      Philippics                                            99

  EMERSON, RALPH WALDO
      English Traits                                       109
      Representative Men                                   118

  ERASMUS
      Familiar Colloquies                                  126
      In Praise of Folly                                   132

  GESTA ROMANORUM                                          140

  GOLDSMITH, OLIVER
      Citizen of the World                                 149

  HALLAM, HENRY
      Introduction to the Literature of Europe             158

  HAZLITT, WILLIAM
      Lectures on the English Poets                        169

  HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL
      Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table                      181

  LA BRUYÈRE
      Characters                                           193

  LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE
      Imaginary Conversations                              203

  LA ROCHEFOUCAULD
      Reflections and Moral Maxims                         215

  LEONARDO DA VINCI
      Treatise on Painting                                 227

  LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM
      Laocoon                                              239

  MILL, JOHN STUART
      Essay on Liberty                                     248

  MILTON, JOHN
      Areopagitica                                         257

  PLUTARCH
      Parallel Lives                                       266

  STAËL, MME. DE
      On Germany                                           276

  TACITUS
      Germania                                             286

  TAINE
      History of English Literature                        298

  THOREAU, HENRY DAVID
      Walden                                               312

  TOCQUEVILLE, DE
      Democracy in America                                 324

  WALTON, IZAAK
      Complete Angler                                      334

  INDEX                                                    349




Miscellaneous




JOSEPH ADDISON

The Spectator

  "The Spectator," the most popular and elegant miscellany of
  English literature, appeared on the 1st of March, 1711. With an
  interruption of two years--1712 to 1714--during part of which
  time "The Guardian," a similar periodical, took its place, "The
  Spectator" was continued to the 20th of December, 1714. Addison's
  fame is inseparably associated with this periodical. He was the
  animating spirit of the magazine, and by far the most exquisite
  essays which appear in it are by him. Richard Steele, Addison's
  friend and coadjutor in "The Spectator," was born in Dublin
  in March, 1672, and died at Carmarthen on September 1, 1729.
  (Addison biography, see Vol. XVI, p. 1.)


_The Essays and the Essayist_

Addison's "Spectator" is one of the most interesting books in the
English language. When Dr. Johnson praised Addison's prose, it was
specially of "The Spectator" that he was speaking. "His page," he
says, "is always luminous, but never blazes in unexpected splendour.
His sentences have neither studied amplitude nor affected brevity; his
periods, though not diligently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever
wishes to attain an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant
but not ostentatious, must give his days and nights to Addison."

Johnson's verdict has been upheld, for it is chiefly by "The Spectator"
that Addison lives. None but scholars know his Latin verse and
his voluminous translations now. His "Cato" survives only in some
half-dozen occasional quotations. Two or three hymns of his, including
"The spacious firmament on high," and "When all Thy mercies, O my God,"
find a place in church collections; and his simile of the angel who
rides upon the whirlwind and directs the storm is used now and again
by pressmen and public speakers. But, in the main, when we think of
Addison, it is of "The Spectator" that we think.

Recall the time when it was founded. It was in the days of Queen Anne,
the Augustan age of the essay. There were no newspapers then, no
magazines or reviews, no Parliamentary reports, nothing corresponding
to the so-called "light literature" of later days. The only centres of
society that existed were the court, with the aristocracy that revolved
about it, and the clubs and coffee-houses, in which the commercial
and professional classes met to discuss matters of general interest,
to crack their jokes, and to exchange small talk about this, that and
the other person, man or woman, who might happen to figure, publicly
or privately, at the time. "The Spectator" was one of the first organs
to give form and consistency to the opinion, the humour and the gossip
engendered by this social contact.

One of the first, but not quite the first; for the less famous, though
still remembered, "Tatler" preceded it. And these two, "The Tatler" and
"The Spectator," have an intimate connection from the circumstance that
Richard Steele, who started "The Tatler" in April, 1709, got Addison to
write for it, and then joined with Addison in "The Spectator" when his
own paper stopped in January, 1711. Addison and Steele had been friends
since boyhood. They were contemporaries at the Charterhouse, and Steele
often spent his holidays in the parsonage of Addison's father.

The two friends were a little under forty years of age when "The
Spectator" began in March, 1711. It was a penny paper, and was
published daily, its predecessor having been published three times a
week. It began with a circulation of 3,000 copies, and ran up to about
10,000 before it stopped its daily issue in December, 1712. Macaulay,
writing in 1843, insists upon the sale as "indicating a popularity
quite as great as that of the most successful works of Scott and
Dickens in our time." The 555 numbers of the daily issue formed seven
volumes; and then there was a final eighth volume, made up of triweekly
issues: a total of 635 numbers, of which Addison wrote 274, and Steele
236.

To summarise the contents of these 635 numbers would require a volume.
They are so versatile and so varied. As one of Addison's biographers
puts it, to-day you have a beautiful meditation, brilliant in imagery
and serious as a sermon, or a pious discourse on death, or perhaps
an eloquent and scathing protest against the duel; while to-morrow
the whole number is perhaps concerned with the wigs, ruffles, and
shoe-buckles of the _macaroni_, or the hoops, patches, farthingales
and tuckers of the ladies. If you wish to see the plays and actors of
the time, "The Spectator" will always show them to you; and, moreover,
point out the dress, manners, and mannerisms, affectations, indecorums,
plaudits, or otherwise of the frequenters of the theatre.

For here is no newspaper, as we understand the term. "The Spectator"
from the first indulged his humours at the expense of the quidnuncs.
Says he:

"There is another set of men that I must likewise lay a claim to
as being altogether unfurnished with ideas till the business and
conversation of the day has supplied them. I have often considered
these poor souls with an eye of great commiseration when I have heard
them asking the first man they have met with whether there was any news
stirring, and by that means gathering together materials for thinking.
These needy persons do not know what to talk of till about twelve
o'clock in the morning; for by that time they are pretty good judges
of the weather, know which way the wind sets, and whether the Dutch
mail be come in. As they lie at the mercy of the first man they meet,
and are grave or impertinent all the day long, according to the notions
which they have imbibed in the morning, I would earnestly entreat them
not to stir out of their chambers till they have read this paper; and
do promise them that I will daily instil into them such sound and
wholesome sentiments as shall have a good effect on their conversation
for the ensuing twelve hours."

Now, the essential, or at least the leading feature of "The Spectator"
is this: that the entertainment is provided by an imaginary set of
characters forming a Spectator Club. The club represents various
classes or sections of the community, so that through its members a
corresponding variety of interests and opinions is set before the
reader, the Spectator himself acting as a sort of final censor or
referee. Chief among the Club members is Sir Roger de Coverley, a
simple, kindly, honourable, old-world country gentleman. Here is the
description of this celebrated character:

"The first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, of
ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Coverley. His
great-grandfather was inventor of that famous country dance which is
called after him. All who know that shire are very well acquainted
with the parts and merits of Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very
singular in his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his good
sense, and are contradictions to the manners of the world only as he
thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humour creates him
no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy; and his
being unconfined to modes and forms makes him but the readier and more
capable to please and oblige all who know him. When he is in town, he
lives in Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by reason
he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of the next county
to him. Before this disappointment, Sir Roger was what you call a
fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord Rochester and Sir George
Etherege, fought a duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully
Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. But being
ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very serious for a year
and a half; and though, his temper being naturally jovial, he at last
got over it, he grew careless of himself, and never dressed afterwards.
He continues to wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in
fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humours, he
tells us, has been in and out twelve times since he first wore it. It
is said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he had forgot this
cruel beauty, insomuch that it is reported he was frequently offended
with beggars and gipsies; but this is looked upon by his friends rather
as matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth year,
cheerful, gay, and hearty; keeps a good house both in town and country;
a great lover of mankind; but there is such a mirthful cast in his
behaviour that he is rather beloved than esteemed."

Then there is Sir Andrew Freeport, "a merchant of great eminence in the
City of London; a person of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and
great experience." He is "acquainted with commerce in all its parts;
and will tell you it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend dominion
by arms; for true power is to be got by arts and industry. He will
often argue that, if this part of our trade were well cultivated, we
should gain from one nation; and if another, from another."

There is Captain Sentry, too, "a gentleman of great courage and
understanding, but invincible modesty," who in the club speaks for the
army, as the templar does for taste and learning, and the clergyman for
theology and philosophy.

And then, that the club may not seem to be unacquainted with "the
gallantries and pleasures of the age," there is Will Honeycomb, the
elderly man of fashion, who is "very ready at that sort of discourse
with which men usually entertain women." Will "knows the history of
every mode, and can inform you from which of the French king's wenches
our wives and daughters had this manner of curling their hair, that
way of placing their hoods; whose frailty was covered by such a sort
of petticoat; and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of the
dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conversation and
knowledge have been in the female world. As other men of his age will
take notice to you what such a minister said upon such and such an
occasion, he will tell you when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court,
such a woman was then smitten, another was taken with him at the head
of his troop in the park. This way of talking of his very much enlivens
the conversation among us of a more sedate turn; and I find there is
not one of the company, but myself, who rarely speak at all, but speaks
of him as that sort of man who is usually called a well-bred fine
gentleman. To conclude his character, where women are not concerned, he
is an honest, worthy man."

Nor must we forget Will Wimble, though he is really an outsider. Will
is the younger son of a baronet: a man of no profession, looking after
his father's game, training his dogs, shooting, fishing, hunting,
making whiplashes for his neighbors, knitting garters for the ladies,
and afterwards slyly inquiring how they wear: a welcome guest at every
house in the county; beloved by all the lads and the children.

Besides these, and others, there is a fine little gallery of portraits
in Sir Roger's country neighbours and tenants. We have, for instance,
the yeoman who "knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a
week, and by that means lives much cheaper than those who have not
so good an estate as himself"; and we have Moll White, the reputed
witch, who, if she made a mistake at church and cried "Amen!" in a
wrong place, "they never failed to conclude that she was saying her
prayers backwards." We have the diverting captain, "young, sound,
and impudent"; we have a demure Quaker; we have Tom Touchy, a fellow
famous for "taking the law" of everybody; and we have the inn-keeper,
who, out of compliment to Sir Roger, "put him up in a sign-post before
the door," and then, when Sir Roger objected, changed the figure into
the Saracen's Head by "a little aggravation of the features" and the
addition of a pair of whiskers!

Best of all is the old chaplain. Sir Roger was "afraid of being
insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table"; so he got a university
friend to "find him out a clergyman, rather of plain sense than much
learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if
possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon." The genial
knight "made him a present of all the good sermons printed in English,
and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of
them in the pulpit." Thus, if Sir Roger happened to meet his chaplain
on a Saturday evening, and asked who was to preach to-morrow, he would
perhaps be answered: "The Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and
Dr. South in the afternoon." About which arrangement "The Spectator"
boldly observes: "I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy
would follow this example; and, instead of wasting their spirits in
laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a handsome
elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what
has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to
themselves, but more edifying to the people."

There is no end to the subjects discussed by "The Spectator." They
range from dreams to dress and duelling; from ghosts to gardening and
goats' milk; from wigs to wine and widows; from religion to riches
and riding; from servants to sign-posts and snuff-boxes; from love
to lodgings and lying; from beards to bankruptcy and blank verse; and
hundreds of other interesting themes. Correspondents often wrote to
emphasise this variety, for letters from the outside public were always
welcome. Thus one "Thomas Trusty":

"The variety of your subjects surprises me as much as a box of
pictures did formerly, in which there was only one face, that by
pulling some pieces of isinglass over it was changed into a senator or
a merry-andrew, a polished lady or a nun, a beau or a blackamoor, a
prude or a coquette, a country squire or a conjurer, with many other
different representations very entertaining, though still the same at
the bottom."

But perhaps, on the whole, woman and her little ways have the
predominant attention. Indeed, Addison expressly avowed this object of
engaging the special interests of the sex when he started. He says:

"There are none to whom this paper will be more useful than to the
female world. I have often thought that there has not been sufficient
pains taken in finding out proper employments and diversions for the
fair ones. Their amusements seem contrived for them rather as they
are women than as they are reasonable creatures; and are more adapted
to the sex than to the species. The toilet is their great scene
of business, and the right adjustment of their hair the principal
employment of their lives. The sorting of a suit of ribands is reckoned
a very good morning's work; and if they make an excursion to a mercer's
or a toy-shop, so great a fatigue makes them unfit for anything else
all the day after. Their more serious occupations are sewing and
embroidery, and their greatest drudgery the preparations of jellies and
sweetmeats. This, I say, is the state of ordinary women; though I know
there are multitudes of those of a more elevated life and conversation,
that move in an exalted sphere of knowledge and virtue, that join all
the beauties of the mind to the ornaments of dress, and inspire a kind
of awe and respect, as well as of love, into their male beholders.
I hope to increase the number of these by publishing this daily
paper, which I shall always endeavour to make an innocent, if not an
improving, entertainment, and by that means, at least, divert the minds
of my female readers from greater trifles."

These reflections on the manners of women did not quite please Swift,
who wrote to Stella: "I will not meddle with 'The Spectator'; let him
_fair sex_ it to the world's end." But they pleased most other people,
as the main contents of "The Spectator" still please. Here is one
typical acknowledgment, signed "Leonora":

  Mr. Spectator,--Your paper is part of my tea-equipage; and my
  servant knows my humour so well that, calling for my breakfast
  this morning (it being past my usual hour), she answered, "'the
  Spectator' was not yet come in, but the tea-kettle boiled, and
  she expected it every moment."

As an "abstract and brief chronicle of the time," this monumental work
of Addison and Steele is without peer. In its pages may be traced the
foundations of all that is noble and healthy in modern English thought;
and its charming sketches may be made the open sesame to a period and a
literature as rich as any our country has seen.




ÆSOP

Fables

  It is in the fitness of things that the early biographies of
  Æsop, the great fabulist, should be entirely fabulous. Macrobius
  has distinguished between _fabula_ and _fabulosa narratio_:
  "He would have a fable to be absolutely false, and a fabulous
  narration to be a number of fictions built upon a foundation of
  truth." The Lives of Æsop belong chiefly to the latter category.
  In the following pages what is known of the life of Æsop is set
  forth, together with condensed versions of some of his most
  characteristic fables, which have long passed into the wisdom of
  all nations, this being a subject that calls for treatment on
  somewhat different lines from the majority of the works dealt
  with in THE WORLD'S GREATEST BOOKS.


_Introductory_

Pierre Bayle, in his judicious fashion, sums up what is said of Æsop in
antiquity, resting chiefly upon Plutarch. "Plutarch affirms: (1) That
Crœsus sent Æsop to Periander, the Tyrant of Corinth, and to the Oracle
of Delphi; (2) that Socrates found no other expedient to obey the God
of Dreams, without injuring his profession, than to turn the Fables of
Æsop into verse; (3) that Æsop and Solon were together at the Court of
Crœsus, King of Lydia; (4) that those of Delphi, having put Æsop to
death cruelly and unjustly, and finding themselves exposed to several
calamities on account of this injustice, made a public declaration that
they were ready to make satisfaction to the memory of Æsop; (5) that
having treated thereupon with a native of Samos, they were delivered
from the evil that afflicted them."

To this summary Bayle added a footnote concerning "The Life of
Æsop, composed by Meziriac": "It is a little book printed at
Bourg-en-Bress, in 1632. It contains only forty pages in 16. It is
becoming exceedingly scarce.... This is what I extract from it. It
is more probable that Æsop was born at Cotiœum, a town of Phrygia,
than that he was born at Sardis, or in the island of Samos, or at
Mesembria in Thrace. The first master that he served was one Zemarchus,
or Demarchus, surnamed Carasius, a native and inhabitant of Athens.
Thus it is probable that it was there he learned the purity of the
Greek tongue, as in its spring, and acquired the knowledge of moral
philosophy which was then in esteem....

"In process of time he was sold to Xanthus, a native of the Isle of
Samos, and afterwards to Idmon, or Iadmnon, the philosopher, who was
a Samian also, and who enfranchised him. After he had recovered his
liberty, he soon acquired a great reputation among the Greeks; so that
the report of his singular wisdom having reached the ears of Crœsus,
he sent to inquire after him; and having conceived an affection for
him, he obliged him by his favours to engage himself in his service to
the end of his life. He travelled through Greece--whether for his own
pleasure or for the private affairs of Crœsus is uncertain--and passing
by Athens, soon after Pisistratus had usurped the sovereign power there
and had abolished the popular state, and seeing that the Athenians
bore the yoke very impatiently, he told them the Fable of the Frogs
that asked a King of Jupiter. Afterwards he met the Seven Wise Men in
the City of Corinth at the Tyrant Periander's. Some relate that, in
order to show that the life of man is full of miseries, and that one
pleasure is attended with a thousand pains, Æsop used to say that when
Prometheus took the clay to form man, he did not temper it with water,
but with tears."

Concerning the death of this extraordinary man we read that Æsop went
to Delphi, with a great quantity of gold and silver, being ordered by
Crœsus to offer a great sacrifice to Apollo, and to give a considerable
sum to each inhabitant. The quarrel which arose between the Delphians
and him was the occasion, after his sending away the sacrifice, of his
sending back the money to Crœsus; for he thought that those for whom
this prince designed it had rendered themselves unworthy of it. The
inhabitants of Delphi contrived an accusation of sacrilege against him,
and, pretending that they had convicted him, cast him down from the top
of a rock.

Bayle has a long line of centuries at his back when he says: "Æsop's
lectures against the faults of men were the fullest of good sense and
wit that can be imagined." He substantiates this affirmation in the
following manner: "Can any inventions be more happy than the images
Æsop made use of to instruct mankind? They are exceedingly fit for
children, and no less proper for grown persons; they are all that is
necessary to perfect a precept --I mean the mixture of the useful with
the agreeable." He then quotes Aulus Gellius as saying: "Æsop the
Phrygian fabulist was not without reason esteemed to be wise, since he
did not, after the manner of the philosophers, severely and imperiously
command such things as were fit to be advised and persuaded, but by
feigning, diverting and entertaining apologues, he insinuates good
and wholesome advice into the minds of men with a kind of willing
attention."

Bayle continues: "At all times these have been made to succeed the
homespun stories of nurses. 'Let them learn to tell the Fables of
Æscop, which succeed the stories of the nursery, in pure and easy
style, and afterwards endeavour to write in the same familiar manner.'
They have never fallen into contempt. Our age, notwithstanding its
pride and delicacy, esteems and admires them, and shows them in a
hundred different shapes. The inimitable La Fontaine has procured them
in our time a great deal of honour and glory; and great commendations
are given to the reflections of an English wit, Sir Roger L'Estrange,
on these very fables."

Since the period when Pierre Bayle composed his great biographical
dictionary, the Fables of Æsop have perhaps suffered something of a
relapse in the favour of grown persons; but if one may judge from the
number of new editions illustrated for children, they are still the
delight of modern nurseries. There is this, however, to be said of
contemporary times--that the multitude of books in a nursery prevent
children from acquiring the profound and affectionate acquaintance with
Æsop which every child would naturally get when his fables were almost
the only book provided by the Press for juvenile readers.

It is questionable whether the fables will any longer produce the
really deep effect which they certainly have had in the past. But we
may be certain that some of them will always play a great part in the
wisdom of the common people, and that these particularly true and
striking apologues are secure of an eternal place in the literature
of nations. As an example of what we mean, we will tell as simply as
possible some of the most characteristic fables.


_The Dog and the Shadow_

A Dog, with a piece of stolen meat between his teeth, was one day
crossing a river by means of a plank, when he caught sight of another
dog in the water carrying a far larger piece of meat. He opened his
jaws to snap at the greater morsel, when the meat dropped in the stream
and was lost even in the reflection.


_The Dying Lion_

A Lion, brought to the extremity of weakness by old age and disease,
lay dying in the sunlight. Those whom he had oppressed in his strength
now came round about him to revenge themselves for past injuries. The
Boar ripped the flank of the King of Beasts with his tusks. The Bull
came and gored the Lion's sides with his horns. Finally, the Ass drew
near, and after carefully seeing that there was no danger, let fly with
his heels in the Lion's face. Then, with a dying groan, the mighty
creature exclaimed: "How much worse it is than a thousand deaths to be
spurned by so base a creature!"


_The Mountain in Labour_

A Mountain was heard to produce dreadful sounds, as though it were
labouring to bring forth something enormous. The people came and stood
about waiting to see what wonderful thing would be produced from this
labour. After they had waited till they were tired, out crept a Mouse.


_Hercules and the Waggoner_

A Waggoner was driving his team through a muddy lane when the wheels
stuck fast in the clay, and the Horses could get no farther. The Man
immediately dropped on his knees, and, crying bitterly, besought
Hercules to come and help him. "Get up and stir thyself, thou lazy
fellow!" replied Hercules. "Whip thy Horses, and put thy shoulder to
the wheel. If thou art in need of my help, when thou thyself hast
laboured, then shalt thou have it."


_The Frogs that Asked for a King_

The Frogs, who lived an easy, happy life in the ponds, once prayed to
Jupiter that he should give them a King. Jupiter was amused by this
prayer, and cast a log into the water, saying: "There, then, is a King
for you." The Frogs, frightened by the great splash, regarded their
King with alarm, until at last, seeing that he did not stir, some of
them jumped upon his back and began to be merry there, amused at such
a foolish King. However, King Log did not satisfy their ideas for very
long, and so once again they petitioned Jupiter to send them a King, a
real King who would rule over them, and not lie helpless in the water.
Then Jupiter sent the Frogs a Stork, who caught them by their legs,
tossed them in the air, and gobbled them up whenever he was hungry.
All in a hurry the Frogs besought Jupiter to take away King Stork
and restore them to their former happy condition. "No, no," answered
Jupiter; "a King that did you no hurt did not please you; make the best
of him you now have, lest a worse come in his place!"


_The Gnat and the Lion_

A lively and insolent Gnat was bold enough to attack a Lion, which he
so maddened by stinging the most sensitive parts of his nose, eyes
and ears that the beast roared with anguish and tore himself with
his claws. In vain were the Lion's efforts to rid himself of his
insignificant tormentor; again and again the insect returned and stung
the furious King of Beasts, till at last the Lion fell exhausted on the
ground. The triumphant Gnat, sounding his tiny trumpet, hovered over
the spot exulting in his victory. But it happened that in his circling
flight he got himself caught in the web of a Spider, which, fine and
delicate as it was, yet had power enough to hold the tiny insect a
prisoner. All the Gnat's efforts to escape only held him the more
tightly and firmly a prisoner, and he who had conquered the Lion became
in his turn the prey of the Spider.


_The Wolf and the Stork_

A Wolf ate his food so greedily that a bone stuck in his throat. This
caused him such great pain that he ran hither and thither, promising
to reward handsomely anyone who would remove the cause of his torture.
A Stork, moved with pity by the Wolf's cry of pain, and tempted also
by the reward, undertook the dangerous operation. When he had removed
the bone, the Wolf moved away, but the Stork called out and reminded
him of the promised reward. "Reward!" exclaimed the Wolf. "Pray, you
greedy fellow, what reward can you expect? You dared to put your head
in my mouth, and instead of biting it off, I let you take it out again
unharmed. Get away with you! And do not again place yourself in my
power."


_The Frog who Wanted to Be as Big as an Ox_

A vain Frog, surrounded by her children, looked up and saw an Ox
grazing near by. "I can be as big as the Ox," she said, and began to
blow herself out. "Am I as big now?" she inquired. "Oh, no; not nearly
so big!" said the little frogs. "Now?" she asked, blowing herself out
still more. "No, not nearly so big!" answered her children. "But now?"
she inquired eagerly, and blew herself out still more. "No, not even
now," they said; "and if you try till you burst yourself you will never
be so big." But the Frog would not listen, and attempting to make
herself bigger still, burst her skin and died.


_The Dog in the Manger_

A Dog lay in a manger which was full of hay. An Ox, being hungry, came
near, and was about to eat when the Dog started up, and, with angry
snarls, would not let the Ox approach. "Surly brute," said the Ox; "you
cannot eat the hay yourself, and you will let no one else have any."


_The Bundle of Faggots_

An honest Man had the unhappiness to have a quarrelsome family of
children. One day he called them before him, and bade them try to break
a bundle of faggots. All tried, and all failed. "Now," said he, "unbind
the bundle and take every stick by itself, and see if you cannot break
them." They did his bidding, and snapped all the sticks one by one with
the greatest possible ease. "This, my children," said the Father at
last, "is a true emblem of your condition. Keep together and you are
safe, divide and you are undone."


_The Fox Without a Tail_

A Fox was once caught in a trap by his tail, and in order to get free
was obliged to leave it behind. He knew that his fellows would make fun
of his tailless condition, so he made up his mind to induce them all to
part with their tails. At the next assemblage of Foxes he made a speech
on the uselessness of tails in general, and the inconvenience of a
Fox's tail in particular, declaring that never in his whole life had he
felt so comfortable as now in his tailless freedom. When he sat down,
a sly old Fox rose, and, waving his brush, said, with a sneer, that
if he had lost his tail, he would be convinced by the last speaker's
arguments, but until such an accident occurred he fully intended to
vote in favour of tails.


_The Blind Man and the Paralytic_

A blind man finding himself stopped in a rough and difficult road,
met with a paralytic and begged his assistance. "How can I help you,"
replied the paralytic, "when I can scarcely move myself along?" But,
regarding the blind man, he added: "However, you appear to have good
legs and a broad back, and, if you will lift me and carry me, I will
guide you safely through this difficulty, which is more than each one
can surmount for himself. You shall walk for me, and I will see for
you." "With all my heart," rejoined the blind man; and, taking the
paralytic on his shoulders, the two went cheerfully forward in a wise
partnership which triumphed over all difficulties.




MATTHEW ARNOLD

Essays in Criticism

  Matthew Arnold, son of Dr. Arnold of Rugby (see Vol. X, p. 260),
  was born on December 24, 1822, and died on April 15, 1888. He was
  by everyday calling an inspector of schools and an educational
  expert, but by nature and grace a poet, a philosopher, a man of
  piety and of letters. Arnold almost ceased to write verse when
  he was forty-five, though not without having already produced
  some of the choicest poetry in the English language. Before
  that he had developed his theories of literary criticism in his
  "Essays in Criticism"; and about the time of his withdrawal
  from Oxford he published "Culture and Anarchy," in which his
  system of philosophy is broadly outlined. Later, in "St. Paul
  and Protestantism," "Literature and Dogma" and "God and the
  Bible," he tried to adjust Christianity according to the light of
  modern knowledge. In his "Lectures on Translating Homer," he had
  expressed views on criticism and its importance that were new to,
  and so were somewhat adversely discussed by the Press. Whereupon,
  in 1865, with a militant joy, he re-entered the fray and defined
  the province of criticism in the first of a series of "Essays in
  Criticism," showing the narrowness of the British conception.
  "The Literary Influence of Academies" was a subject that enabled
  him to make a further comparison between the literary genius of
  the French and of the English people, and a number of individual
  critiques that followed only enhanced his great and now
  undisputed position both as a poet and as a critic. The argument
  of the two general essays is given here.


_I.--Creative Power and Critical Power_

Many objections have been made to a proposition of mine about
criticism: "Of the literature of France and Germany, as of the
intellect of Europe in general, the main effort, for now many years,
has been a critical effort--the endeavour, in all branches of
knowledge, to see the object as in itself it really is." I added that
"almost the last thing for which one would come to English literature
was just that very thing which now Europe most desired--criticism,"
and that the power and value of English literature were thereby
impaired. More than one rejoinder declared that the importance here
again assigned to criticism was excessive, and asserted the inherent
superiority of the creative effort of the human spirit over its
critical effort. A reporter of Wordsworth's conversation quotes a
judgment to the same effect: "Wordsworth holds the critical power very
low; indeed, infinitely lower than the inventive."

The critical power is of lower rank than the inventive--true; but, in
assenting to this proposition, we must keep in mind that men may have
the sense of exercising a free creative activity in other ways than
in producing great works of literature or art; and that the exercise
of the creative power in the production of great works of literature
or art is not at all epochs and under all conditions possible. This
creative power works with elements, with materials--what if it has not
those materials ready for its use? Now, in literature, the elements
with which creative power works are ideas--the best ideas on every
matter which literature touches, current at the time. The grand work of
literary genius is a work of synthesis and exposition; its gift lies
in the faculty of being happily inspired by a certain intellectual and
spiritual atmosphere, by a certain order of ideas, when it finds itself
in them; of dealing divinely with these ideas, presenting them in most
effective and attractive combinations, making beautiful works with
them, in short. But it must have the atmosphere, it must find itself
amidst the order of the ideas, in order to work freely; and these it
is not so easy to command. This is really why great creative epochs in
literature are so rare--because, for the creation of a master-work of
literature two powers must concur, the power of the man and the power
of the moment; and the man is not enough without the moment.

The creative power has for its happy exercise appointed elements, and
those elements are not in its control. Nay, they are more within the
control of the critical power. It is the business of the critical
power in all branches of knowledge to see the object as in itself it
really is. Thus it tends at last to make an intellectual situation of
which the creative power can avail itself. It tends to establish an
order of ideas, if not absolutely true, yet true by comparison with
that which it displaces--to make the best ideas prevail. Presently
these new ideas reach society; the touch of truth is the touch of life;
and there is a stir and growth everywhere. Out of this stir and growth
come the creative epochs of literature.


_II.--The Literary "Atmosphere"_

It has long seemed to me that the burst of creative activity in our
literature through the first quarter of the nineteenth century had
about it something premature, and for this cause its productions are
doomed to prove hardly more lasting than the productions of far less
splendid epochs. And this prematureness comes from its having proceeded
without having its proper data, without sufficient materials to work
with. In other words, the English poetry of the first quarter of the
nineteenth century, with plenty of energy, plenty of creative force,
did not know enough. This makes Byron so empty of matter, Shelley so
incoherent, Wordsworth, profound as he is, so wanting in completeness
and variety.

It was not really books and reading that lacked to our poetry at this
epoch. Shelley had plenty of reading, Coleridge had immense reading;
Pindar and Sophocles had not many books; Shakespeare was no deep
reader. True; but in the Greece of Pindar and Sophocles and the England
of Shakespeare the poet lived in a current of ideas in the highest
degree animating and nourishing to creative power.

Such an atmosphere the many-sided learning and the long and widely
combined critical effort of Germany formed for Goethe when he lived
and worked. In the England of the first quarter of the nineteenth
century there was neither a national glow of life and thought, such
as we had in the age of Elizabeth, nor yet a force of learning and
criticism, such as was to be found in Germany. The creative power
of poetry wanted, for success in the highest sense, materials and a
basis--a thorough interpretation of the world was necessarily denied to
it.

At first it seems strange that out of the immense stir of the French
Revolution and its age should not have come a crop of works of genius
equal to that which came out of the stir of the great productive time
of Greece, or out of that of the Renaissance, with its powerful episode
of the Reformation. But the truth is that the stir of the French
Revolution took a character which essentially distinguished it from
such movements as these. The French Revolution found, undoubtedly, its
motive power in the intelligence of men, and not in their practical
sense. It appeals to an order of ideas which are universal, certain,
permanent. The year 1789 asked of a thing: Is it rational? That a
whole nation should have been penetrated with an enthusiasm for pure
reason is a very remarkable thing when we consider how little of mind,
or anything so worthy or quickening as mind, comes into the motives
which in general impel great masses of men. In spite of the crimes and
follies in which it lost itself, the French Revolution derives, from
the force, truth and universality of the ideas which it took for its
law, a unique and still living power; and it is, and will probably long
remain, the greatest, the most animating event in history.

But the mania for giving an immediate political and practical
application to all these fine ideas of the reason was fatal. Here
an Englishman is in his element: on this theme we can all go on for
hours. Ideas cannot be too much prized in and for themselves, cannot
be too much lived with; but to transport them abruptly into the world
of politics and practice, violently to revolutionise this world to
their bidding--that is quite another thing. "Force and right are the
governors of the world; force till right is ready" Joubert has said.
The grand error of the French Revolution was that it set at naught
the second great half of that maxim--force till right is ready--and,
rushing furiously into the political sphere, created in opposition to
itself what I may call an epoch of concentration.

The great force of that epoch of concentration was England, and the
great voice of that epoch of concentration was Burke. I will not
deny that his writings are often disfigured by the violence and
passion of the moment, and that in some directions Burke's view was
bounded and his observations therefore at fault; but for those who
can make the needful corrections what distinguishes these writings
is their profound, permanent, fruitful, philosophical truth--they
contain the true philosophy of an epoch of concentration. Now, an
epoch of expansion seems to be opening in this country. In spite of
the absorbing and brutalising influence of our passionate material
progress, this progress is likely to lead in the end to an apparition
of intellectual life. It is of the last importance that English
criticism should discern what rule it ought to take, to avail itself
of the field now opening to it. That rule may be summed up in one
word--disinterestedness.


_III.--The Virtue of Detachment_

How is criticism to show disinterestedness? By keeping aloof from
practice; by resolutely following the law of its own nature, which is
to be a free play of the mind on all subjects which it touches. Its
business is simply to know the best that is known and thought in the
world, and by making this known to create a current of fresh and true
ideas. What is at present the bane of criticism in this country? It
is that our organs of criticism are organs of men and parties having
practical ends to serve, and with them those practical ends are the
first thing, and the play of the mind the second--so much play of mind
as is compatible with the prosecution of these practical ends is all
that is wanted.

An organ like the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, existing as just an organ
for a free play of mind, we have not; but we have the "Edinburgh
Review," existing as an organ of the old Whigs, and for as much play
of mind as may suit its being that; we have the "Quarterly Review,"
existing as an organ of the Tories, and for as much play of mind as may
suit its being that; we have the "British Quarterly Review," existing
as an organ of the political Dissenters, and for as much play of mind
as may suit its being that; we have "The Times," existing as an organ
of the common, satisfied, well-to-do Englishman, and for as much play
of mind as may suit its being that. And so on through all the various
fractions, political and religious, of our society--every fraction
has, as such, its organ of criticism, but the notion of combining all
fractions in the common pleasure of a free, disinterested play of mind
meets with no favour. Yet no other criticism will ever attain any real
authority, or make any real way towards its end--the creating of a
current of true and fresh ideas.

It will be said that, by embracing in this manner the Indian virtue
of detachment, criticism condemns itself to a slow and obscure work;
but it is the only proper work of criticism. Whoever sets himself to
see things as they are will find himself one of a very small circle;
but it is only by this small circle resolutely doing its work that
adequate ideas will ever get current at all. For the practical man is
not apt for fine distinctions, and yet in these distinctions truth and
the highest culture greatly find their account. To act is so easy, as
Goethe says, and to think is so hard. Criticism must maintain its
independence of the practical spirit and its aims. Even with well meant
efforts of the practical spirit it must express dissatisfaction if, in
the sphere of the ideal, they seem impoverishing and limiting. It must
be apt to study and praise elements that for the fulness of spiritual
perfection are wanted, even though they belong to a power which, in
the practical sphere, may be maleficent. It must be apt to discern the
spiritual shortcomings of powers that in the practical sphere may be
beneficent.

By the very nature of things much of the best that is known and
thought in the world cannot be of English growth--must be foreign;
by the nature of things, again, it is just this that we are least
likely to know, while English thought is streaming in upon us from all
sides, and takes excellent care that we shall not be ignorant of its
existence. The English critic must dwell much on foreign thought, and
with particular heed on any part of it, which, while significant and
fruitful in itself, is for any reason specially likely to escape him.

Again, judging is often spoken of as the critic's business; and so in
some sense it is. But the judgment which almost insensibly forms itself
in a fair and clear mind, along with fresh knowledge, is the valuable
one; and, therefore, knowledge, and ever fresh knowledge, must be the
critic's great concern for himself. And it is by communicating fresh
knowledge, and letting his own judgment pass along with it--as a sort
of companion and clue--that he will generally do most good to his
readers.

To get near the standard of the best that is known and thought in the
world, every critic should possess one great literature at least beside
his own; and the more unlike his own the better. For the criticism I am
concerned with regards Europe as being for intellectual and spiritual
purposes one great confederation, bound to a joint action and working
to a common result.

I conclude with what I said at the beginning. To have the sense of
creative activity is not denied to criticism; but then criticism must
be sincere, simple, flexible, ardent, ever widening its knowledge. Then
it may have, in no contemptible measure, a joyful sense of creative
activity, a sense which a man of insight and conscience will prefer
to that he might derive from a poor, starved, fragmentary, inadequate
creation. And at some epochs no other creation is possible. Still, in
full measure, the sense of creative activity belongs only to genuine
creation; in literature we must never forget that. But what true man of
letters ever can forget it? It is no such common matter for a gifted
nature to come into possession of a current of true and living ideas,
and to produce amidst the inspiration of them, that we are likely to
underrate it. The glorious epochs of Æschylus and Shakespeare make us
feel their pre-eminence. In an epoch like those is the true life of
literature; there is the promised land towards which criticism can only
beckon.


_IV.--Should We Have an Academy?_

It is impossible to put down a book like the history of the French
Academy by Pellisson and D'Olivet without being led to reflect upon
the absence in our own country of any institution like the French
Academy, upon the probable causes of this absence, and upon its
results. Improvement of the language was the declared grand aim for the
operations of that academy. Its statutes of foundation say expressly
that "the Academy's principal function shall be to work with all
the care and all the diligence possible at giving sure rules to our
language, and rendering it pure, eloquent and capable of treating
the arts and sciences." It is said that Richelieu had it in his mind
that French should succeed Latin in its general ascendancy, as Latin
had succeeded Greek. If it were so, even this wish has to some extent
been fulfilled. This was not all Richelieu had in his mind, however.
The new academy was meant to be a literary tribunal, a high court of
letters, and this is what it has really been.

Such an effort, to set up a recognised authority, imposing on us a
high standard in matters of intellect and taste, has many enemies in
human nature. We all of us like to go our own way, and not to be forced
out of the atmosphere of commonplace habitual to most of us. We like
to be suffered to lie comfortably on the old straw of our habits,
especially of our intellectual habits, even though this straw may not
be very fine and clean. But if this effort to limit the freedom of our
lower nature finds enemies in human nature, it also finds auxiliaries
in it. Man alone of living creatures, says Cicero, goes feeling after
the discovery of an order, a law of good taste; other creatures
submissively fulfil the law of their nature.

Now in France, says M. Sainte-Beuve, "the first consideration for us is
not whether we are amused and pleased by a work of art or of mind, or
is it whether we are touched by it. What we seek above all to learn is
whether we were right in being amused with it, and in applauding it,
and in being moved by it." A Frenchman has, to a considerable degree,
what one may call a conscience in intellectual matters. Seeing this, we
are on the road to see why the French have their Academy and we have
nothing of the kind.

What are the essential characteristics of the spirit of our nation?
Our greatest admirers would not claim for us an open and clear mind,
a quick and flexible intelligence. Rather would they allege as our
chief spiritual characteristics energy and honesty--most important and
fruitful qualities in the intellectual and spiritual, as in the moral
sphere, for, of what we call genius, energy is the most essential
part. Now, what that energy, which is the life of genius, above
everything demands and insists upon, is freedom--entire independence of
authority, prescription and routine, the fullest power to extend as
it will. Therefore, a nation whose chief spiritual characteristic is
energy will not be very apt to set up in intellectual matters a fixed
standard, an authority like an academy. By this it certainly escapes
real inconveniences and dangers, and it can, at the same time, reach
undeniably splendid heights in poetry and science. We have Shakespeare,
and we have Newton. In the intellectual sphere there can be no higher
names.

On the other hand, some of the requisites of intellectual work
are specially the affair of quickness of mind and flexibility of
intelligence. In prose literature they are of first-rate importance.
These are elements that can, to a certain degree, be appropriated,
while the free activity of genius cannot. Academies consecrate and
maintain them, and therefore a nation with an eminent turn for them
naturally establishes academies.


_V.--Our Loss Through Provinciality_

How much greater is our nation in poetry than prose! How much better do
the productions of its spirit show in the qualities of genius than in
the qualities of intelligence! But the question as to the utility of
academies to the intellectual life of a nation is not settled when we
say that we have never had an academy, yet we have, confessedly, a very
great literature. It is by no means sure that either our literature
or the general intellectual life of our nation has got already
without academies all that academies can give. Our literature, in
spite of the genius manifested in it, may fall short in form, method,
precision, proportions, arrangement--all things where intelligence
proper comes in. It may be weak in prose, full of haphazard, crudeness,
provincialism, eccentricity, violence, blundering; and instead of
always fixing our thoughts upon the points in which our literature is
strong, we should, from time to time, fix them upon those in which
it is weak. In France, the Academy serves as a sort of centre and
rallying-point to educated opinion, and gives it a force which it has
not got here. In the bulk of the intellectual work of a nation which
has no centre, no intellectual metropolis like an academy, there is
observable a note of provinciality. Great powers of mind will make a
man think profoundly, but not even great powers of mind will keep his
taste and style perfectly sound and sure if he is left too much to
himself with no sovereign organ of opinion near him.

Even men like Jeremy Taylor and Burke suffer here. Theirs is too often
extravagant prose; prose too much suffered to indulge its caprices;
prose at too great a distance from the centre of good taste; prose with
the note of provinciality; Asiatic prose, somewhat barbarously rich and
overloaded. The note of provinciality in Addison is to be found in the
commonplace of his ideas, though his style is classical. Where there
is no centre like an academy, if you have genius and powerful ideas,
you are apt not to have the best style going; if you have precision of
style and not genius, you are apt not to have the best ideas going.

The provincial spirit exaggerates the value of its ideas for want of
a high standard at hand by which to try them; it is hurried away by
fancies; it likes and dislikes too passionately, too exclusively; its
admiration weeps hysterical tears, and its disapprobation foams at the
mouth. So we get the eruptive and aggressive manner in literature. Not
having the lucidity of a large and centrally-placed intelligence, the
provincial spirit has not its graciousness; it does not persuade, it
makes war; it has not urbanity, the tone of the city, of the centre,
the tone that always aims at a spiritual and intellectual effect. It
loves hard-hitting rather than persuading. The newspaper, with its
party spirit, its resolute avoidance of shades and distinctions, is
its true literature. In England there needs a miracle of genius like
Shakespeare to produce balance of mind, and a miracle of intellectual
delicacy like Dr. Newman's to produce urbanity of style.

The reader will ask for some practical conclusion about the
establishment of an academy in this country, and perhaps I shall hardly
give him the one he expects. Nations have their own modes of acting,
and these modes are not easily changed; they are even consecrated when
great things have been done in them. When a literature has produced
a Shakespeare and a Milton, when it has even produced a Barrow and a
Burke, it cannot well abandon its traditions; it can hardly begin at
this late time of day with an institution like the French Academy. An
academy quite like the French Academy, a sovereign organ of the highest
literary opinion, a recognised authority in matters of intellectual
tone and taste, we shall hardly have, and perhaps ought not to wish to
have. But then every one amongst us with any turn for literature at all
will do well to remember to what shortcomings and excesses, which such
an academy tends to correct, we are liable, and the more liable, of
course, for not having it. He will do well constantly to try himself in
respect of these, steadily to widen his culture, and severely to check
in himself the provincial spirit.


_VI.--Some Illustrative Criticisms_

To try and approach Truth on one side after another, not to strive or
cry, not to persist in pressing forward on any one side with violence
and self-will--it is only thus that mortals may hope to gain any vision
of the mysterious goddess whom we shall never see except in outline.

The grand power of poetry is the power of dealing with things so as to
awaken in us a wonderfully full, new and intimate sense of them and
of our relation with them, so that we feel ourselves to be in contact
with the essential nature of those objects, to have their secret, and
be in harmony with them, and this feeling calms and satisfies us as no
other can. Maurice de Guérin manifested this magical power of poetry in
singular eminence. His passion for perfection disdained all poetical
work that was not perfectly adequate and felicitous.

His sister Eugénie de Guérin has the same characteristic
quality--distinction. Of this quality the world is impatient; it
chafes against it, rails at it, insults it, hates it, but ends by
receiving its influence and by undergoing its law. This quality at last
inexorably corrects the world's blunders, and fixes the world's ideals.

Heine claimed that he was "a brave soldier in the war of the liberation
of humanity." That was his significance. He was, if not pre-eminently
a brave, yet a brilliant soldier in the war of liberation of humanity.
He was not an adequate interpreter of the modern world, but only a
brilliant soldier.

Born in 1754, and dying in 1824, Joseph Joubert chose to hide his life;
but he was a man of extraordinary ardour in the search for truth and
of extraordinary fineness in the perception of it. He was one of those
wonderful lovers of light who, when they have an idea to put forth,
brood long over it first, and wait patiently till it shines.




GEORGE BRANDES

Main Currents of the Literature of the Nineteenth Century

  George Brandes was born in Copenhagen on February 4, 1842, and
  was educated at the University of Copenhagen. The appearance
  of his "Æsthetic Studies" in 1868 established his reputation
  among men of letters of all lands. His criticism received a
  philosophic bent from his study of John Stuart Mill, Comte, and
  Renan. Complaint is often made of the bias exhibited by Brandes
  in his works, which is somewhat of a blemish on the breadth
  of his judgment. This bias finds its chief expression in his
  anti-clericalism. His publications number thirty-three volumes,
  and include works on history, literature, and criticism. He
  has written studies of Shakespeare, of Lord Beaconsfield, of
  Ibsen, and of Ferdinand Lassalle. His greatest work is the "Main
  Currents of the Literature of the Nineteenth Century." The field
  covered is so vast that any attempted synopsis of the volume is
  impossible here, so in this place we merely indicate the scope of
  Brandes's monumental work, and state his general conclusions.


_The Man and the Book_

This remarkable essay in literary criticism is limited to the first
half of the nineteenth century; it concludes with the historical
turning-point of 1848. Within this period the author discovers, first,
a reaction against the literature of the eighteenth century; and then,
the vanquishment of that reaction. Or, in other words, there is first
a fading away and disappearance of the ideas and feelings of the
preceding century, and then a return of the ideas of progress in new
and higher waves.

"Literary history is, in its profoundest significance, psychology, the
study, the history of the soul"; and literary criticism is, with our
author, nothing less than the interior history of peoples. Whether we
happen to agree or to disagree with his personal sympathies, which
lie altogether with liberalism and whether his interpretation of these
complex movements be accepted or rejected by future criticism, it is at
least unquestionable that his estimate of his science is the right one,
and that his method is the right one, and that no one stands beside
Brandes as an exponent.

The historical movement of the years 1800 to 1848 is here likened to a
drama, of which six different literary groups represent the six acts.
The first three acts incorporate the reaction against progress and
liberty. They are, first, the French Emigrant Literature, inspired
by Rousseau; secondly, the semi-Catholic Romantic school of Germany,
wherein the reaction has separated itself more thoroughly from the
contemporary struggle for liberty, and has gained considerably in
depth and vigour; and, thirdly, the militant and triumphant reaction
as shown in Joseph de Maistre, Lamennais, Lamartine and Victor Hugo,
standing out for pope and monarch. The drama of reaction has here come
to its climax; and the last three acts are to witness its fall, and the
revival, in its place, of the ideas of liberty and of progress.

"It is one man, Byron, who produces the revulsion in the great drama."
And Byron and his English contemporaries, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott,
Keats and Shelley, hold the stage in the fourth act, "Naturalism in
England." The fifth act belongs to the Liberal movement in France, the
"French Romantic School," including the names of Lamennais, Lamartine
and Hugo in their second phase; and also those of De Musset and George
Sand. The movement passes from France into "Young Germany," where the
sixth act is played by Heine, Ruge, Feuerbach and others; and the
ardent revolutionary writers of France and of Germany together prepare
for the great political transformation of 1848.


_I.--The Emigrant Literature_

At the beginning of our period, France was subjected to two successive
tyrannies: those, namely, of the Convention and of the Empire, both of
which suppressed all independent thought and literature. Writers were,
perforce, emigrants beyond the frontiers of French power, and were, one
and all, in opposition to the Reign of Terror, or to the Napoleonic
tyranny, or to both; one and all they were looking forward to the new
age which should come.

There was, therefore, a note of expectancy in this emigrant literature,
which had also the advantage of real knowledge, gained in long exile,
of foreign lands and peoples. Although it reacts against the dry and
narrow rationalism of the eighteenth century, it is not as yet a
complete reaction against the Liberalism of that period; the writers
of the emigrant group are still ardent in the cause of Liberty. They
are contrary to the spirit of Voltaire; but they are all profoundly
influenced by Rousseau.

Chateaubriand's romances, "Atala" and "René," Rousseau's "The New
Héloïse" and Goethe's "Werther" are the subjects of studies which lead
our critic to a consideration of that new spiritual condition of which
they are the indications. "All the spiritual maladies," he says, "which
make their appearance at this time may be regarded as the products
of two great events--the emancipation of the individual and the
emancipation of thought."

Every career now lies open, potentially, to the individual. His
opportunities, and therefore his desires, but not his powers, have
become boundless; and "inordinate desire is always accompanied by
inordinate melancholy." His release from the old order, which limited
his importance, has set him free for self-idolatry; the old laws
have broken down, and everything now seems permissible. He no longer
feels himself part of a whole; he feels himself to be a little world
which reflects the great world. The belief in the saving power of
enlightenment had been rudely shaken, and the minds of men were
confused like an army which receives contradictory orders in the midst
of a battle. Sénancour, Nodier and Benjamin Constant have left us
striking romances picturing the human spirit in this dilemma; they show
also a new feeling for Nature, new revelations of subjectivity, and new
ideas of womanhood and of passion.

But of the emigrant literature Madame de Staël is the chief and
central figure. The lawless savagery of the Revolution did not weaken
her fidelity to personal and political freedom. "She wages war with
absolutism in the state and hypocrisy in society. She teaches her
countrymen to appreciate the characteristics and literature of the
neighbouring nations; she breaks down with her own hands the wall of
self-sufficiency with which victorious France had surrounded itself.
Barante, with his perspective view of eighteenth-century France, only
continues and completes her work."


_II.--The Romantic School in Germany_

German Romanticism continues the growing reaction against the
eighteenth century; yet, though it is essentially reaction, it is not
mere reaction, but contains the seeds of a new development. It is
intellectual, poetical, philosophical and full of real life.

This literary period, marked by the names of Hölderlin, A. W. Schlegel,
Tieck, Jean Paul Richter, Schleiermacher, Wackenroder, Novalis, Arnim,
Brentano, resulted in little that has endured. It produced no typical
forms; the character of its literature is musical rather than plastic;
its impulse is not a clear perception or creation, but an infinite and
ineffable aspiration.

An intenser spiritual life was at once the impulse and the goal of
the Romanticists, in whom wonder and infinite desire are born again.
A sympathetic interest in the fairy tale and the legend, in the face
of Nature and in her creatures, in history, institutions and law, and
a keener emotional sensitiveness in poetry, were the result of this
refreshed interior life. In religion, the movement was towards the
richly-coloured mystery and child-like faith of Catholicism; and in
respect of human love it was towards freedom, spontaneity, intensity,
and against the hard bonds of social conventions.

But its emotions became increasingly morbid, abnormal and ineffectual.
Romanticism tended really, not to the spiritual emancipation that was
its avowed aim, but to a refinement of sensuality; an indolent and
passive enjoyment is its actual goal; and it repudiates industry and
utility as the philistine barriers which exclude us from Paradise.
Retrogression, the going back to a fancied Paradise or Golden Age, is
the central idea of Romanticism, and is the secret of the practical
ineffectiveness of the movement.

Friedrich Schlegel's romance, "Lucinde," is a very typical work of
this period. It is based on the Romantic idea that life and poetry are
identical, and its aim is to counsel the transformation of our actual
life into a poem or work of art. It is a manifesto of self-absorption
and of subjectivity; the reasoned defence of idleness, of enjoyment, of
lawlessness, of the arbitrary expression of the Self, supreme above all.

The mysticism of Novalis, who preferred sickness to health, night to
day, and invested death itself with sensual delights, is described by
himself as voluptuousness. It is full of a feverish, morbid desire,
which becomes at last the desire for nothingness. The "blue flower," in
his story "Heinrich von Ofterdingen," is the ideal, personal happiness,
sought for in all Romanticism, but by its very nature never attainable.


_III.--The Reaction in France_

Herein we have the culmination of the reactionary movement. Certain
authors are grouped together as labouring for the re-establishment of
the fallen power of authority; and by the principle of authority is to
be understood "the principle which assumes the life of the individual
and of the nation to be based upon reverence for inherited tradition."
Further, "the principle of authority in general stood or fell with the
authority of the Church. When that was undermined, it drew all other
authorities with it in its fall."

After a study of the Revolution in its quality as a religious movement,
and the story of the Concordat, our author traces the genesis of
this extreme phase of the reaction. Its promoters were all of noble
birth and bound by close ties to the old royal families; their aim
was political rather than religious; "they craved for religion as
a panacea for lawlessness." Their ruling idea was the principle of
externality, as opposed to that of inward, personal feeling and private
investigation; it was the principle of theocracy, as opposed to the
sovereignty of the people; it was the principle of power, as opposed to
the principles of human rights and liberties.

Chateaubriand's famous book, "Le Génie du Christianisme," devoid of
real feeling, attempts to vindicate authority by means of an appeal
to sentiment, as if taking for granted that a reasoned faith was now
impossible. His point of view is romantic, and therefore, religiously,
false; his reasoning is of the "how beautiful!" style.

But the principle was enthroned by Count Joseph de Maistre, a very
different man. The minister of the King of Sardinia at the court
of Russia, he gained the emperor's confidence by his strong and
pure character, his royalist principles, and his talents. His more
important works, "Du Pape," "De l'Eglise Gallicane," and "Soirées de
St. Pétersbourg," are the most uncompromising defence of political
and religious autocracy. The fundamental idea of his works is that
"there is no human society without government, no government without
sovereignty, and no sovereignty without infallibility." Beside De
Maistre stands Bonald, a man of the same views, but without the other's
daring and versatile wit. Chateaubriand's prose epic "Les Martyrs," the
mystically sensual writings of Madame Krüdener, and the lyric poetry
of Lamartine and Victor Hugo further popularised the reaction, which
reached its breaking point in Lamennais.

It was at this moment, April, 1824, that the news came of Byron's death
in Greece. The illusion dissolved; the reaction came to an end. The
principle of authority fell, never to rise again; and the Immanuelistic
school was succeeded by the Satanic.


_IV.--Naturalism in England_

The distinguishing character which our author discovers in the English
poets is a love of Nature, of the country and the sea, of domestic
animals and vegetation. This Naturalism, common to Wordsworth,
Coleridge, Scott, Keats, Moore, Shelley and Byron, becomes, when
transferred to social interests, revolutionary; the English poet is
a Radical. Literary questions interest him not; he is at heart a
politician.

The political background of English intellectual life at this period
is painted forcibly and in the darkest tones. It was "dark with
terror produced in the middle classes by the excesses of the liberty
movement in France, dark with the tyrannic lusts of proud Tories and
the Church's oppressions, dark with the spilt blood of Irish Catholics
and English artisans." In the midst of all this misery, Wordsworth and
Coleridge recalled the English mind to the love of real Nature and to
the love of liberty. Wordsworth's conviction was that in town life
and its distractions men had forgotten Nature, and had been punished
for it; constant social intercourse had dissipated their talents and
impaired their susceptibility to simple and pure impressions. His
naturalism is antagonistic to all official creeds; it is akin to the
old Greek conception of Nature, and is impregnated with pantheism.

The separate studies which follow, dealing with the natural Romanticism
of Coleridge, Southey's Oriental Romanticism, the Lake school's
conception of Liberty, the Historic Naturalism of Scott, the sensuous
poetry of Keats, the poetry of Irish opposition and revolt, Thomas
Campbell's poetry of freedom, the Republican Humanism of Landor,
Shelley's Radical Naturalism, and like subjects, are of the highest
importance to every English reader who would understand the time in
which he lives. But Byron's is the heroic figure in this act. "Byron's
genius takes possession of him, and makes him great and victorious in
his argument, directing his aim with absolute certainty to the vital
points." Byron's whole being burned with the profoundest compassion
for the immeasurable sufferings of humanity. It was liberty that he
worshipped, and he died for liberty.


_V.--The Romantic School in France_

During the Revolution the national property had been divided into
twenty times as many hands as before, and with the fall of Napoleon
the industrial period begins. All restrictions had been removed
from industry and commerce, and capital became the moving power of
society and the object of individual desires. The pursuit of money
helps to give to the literature of the day its romantic, idealistic
stamp. Balzac alone, however, made money the hero of his epic. Other
great writers of the period, Victor Hugo, Alfred de Musset, George
Sand, Beyle, Mérimée, Théophile Gautier, Sainte-Beuve, kept as far as
possible from the new reality.

The young Romanticists of 1830 burned with a passion for art and a
detestation of drab bourgeoisie. A break with tradition was demanded
in all the arts; the original, the unconscious, the popular, were what
they aimed at. It was now, as in Hugo's dramas, that the passionate
plebeian appeared on the scene as hero; Mérimée, as in "Carmen,"
painted savage emotions; Nodier's children spoke like real children;
George Sand depicted, in woman, not conscious virtue and vice, but the
innate nobility and natural goodness of a noble woman's heart. The poet
was no longer looked on as a courtier, but as the despised high-priest
of humanity.

The French Romantic school is the greatest literary school of the
nineteenth century. It displayed three main tendencies--the endeavour
to reproduce faithfully some real piece of past history or some phase
of modern life; the endeavour after perfection of form; and enthusiasm
for great religious or social reformatory ideas. These three tendencies
are traced out in the ideals and work of the brilliant authors of the
period; in George Sand, for instance, who proclaimed that the mission
of art is a mission of sentiment and love; and in Balzac, who views
society as the scientist investigates Nature--"he never moralises and
condemns; he never allows himself to be led by disgust or enthusiasm to
describe otherwise than truthfully; nothing is too small, nothing is
too great to be examined and explained."

The impressions which our author gives of Sainte-Beuve, Gautier,
George Sand, Balzac and Mérimée are vivid and concrete; they are high
achievements in literary portraiture, set in a real historic background.


_VI.--Young Germany_

The personality, writings, and actions of Byron had an extraordinary
influence upon "Young Germany," a movement initiated by Heine and
Börne, and characterised by a strong craving for liberty. "Byron,
with his contempt for the real negation of liberty that lay concealed
beneath the 'wars of liberty' against Napoleon, with his championship
of the oppressed, his revolt against social custom, his sensuality and
spleen, his passionate love of liberty in every domain, seemed to the
men of that day to be an embodiment of all that they understood by the
modern spirit, modern poetry."

The literary group known as Young Germany has no creative minds of the
highest, and only one of very high rank, namely, Heine. "It denied, it
emancipated, it cleared up, it let in fresh air. It is strong through
its doubt, its hatred of thraldom, its individualism." The Germany of
those days has been succeeded by a quite new Germany, organised to
build up and to put forth material strength, and the writers of the
first half of the nineteenth century, who were always praising France
and condemning the sluggishness of their own country, are but little
read.

The literary figures of this period who are painted by our author, are
Börne, Heine, Immermann, Menzel, Gutzkow, Laube, Mundt, Rahel Varnhagen
von Ense, Bettina von Arnim, Charlotte Stieglitz, and many others, to
whose writings, in conjunction with those of the French Romanticists,
Brandes ascribes the general revolt of the oppressed peoples of Europe
in 1848. Of the men of that date he says: "They had a faith that could
remove mountains, and a hope that could shake the earth. Liberty,
parliament, national unity, liberty of the Press, republic, were to
them magic words, at the very sound of which their hearts leaped like
the heart of a youth who suddenly sees his beloved."




ROBERT BURTON

The Anatomy of Melancholy

  Robert Burton was born on February 8, 1576, of an old family, at
  Lindley, Leicestershire, England; was educated at the free school
  of Sutton Coldfield, Warwickshire, and at Brasenose College,
  Oxford, and in 1599 was elected student of Christ Church. In
  1616 he was presented with the vicarage of St. Thomas, Oxford,
  and in 1636 with the rectory of Segrave, in Leicestershire, and
  kept both these livings until his death. But he lived chiefly
  in his rooms at Christ Church, Oxford, where, burrowing in the
  treasures of the Bodleian Library, he elaborated his learned
  and whimsical book. He died on January 25, 1639, and was buried
  in Christ Church Cathedral. The "Anatomy of Melancholy" is
  an enormous compendium of sound sense, sly humour, universal
  erudition, mediæval science, fantastic conceits, and noble
  sentiments, arranged in the form of a most methodical treatise,
  divided, and subdivided again, into sections dealing with every
  conceivable aspect of this fell disorder. It is an intricate
  tissue of quotations and allusions, and its interest lies as
  much in its texture as in its argument. The "Anatomy" consists
  of an introduction, "Democritus Junior to the Reader," and
  then of three "Partitions," of which the first treats of the
  Causes of Melancholy, the second of its Cure, and the third
  of Love-Melancholy, wherewith is included the Melancholy of
  Superstition.


_I.--Democritus Junior to the Reader_

Gentle reader, I presume thou wilt be very inquisitive to know what
antic or personate actor this is that so insolently intrudes upon this
common theatre to the world's view, arrogating another man's name;
whence he is, why he doth it, and what he hath to say. Seek not after
that which is hid; if the contents please thee, suppose the man in the
moon, or whom thou wilt, to be the author; I would not willingly be
known.

I have masked myself under this visard because, like Democritus,
I have lived a silent, sedentary, solitary, private life in the
university, penned up most part in my study. Though by my profession
a divine, yet, out of a running wit, an unconstant, unsettled mind, I
had a great desire to have some smattering in all subjects; which Plato
commends as fit to be imprinted in all curious wits, not to be a slave
of one science, as most do, but to rove abroad, to have an oar in every
man's boat, to taste of every dish, and to sip of every cup; which,
saith Montaigne, was well performed by Aristotle.

I have little, I want nothing; all my treasure is in Minerva's tower.
Though I lead a monastic life, myself my own theatre, I hear and see
what is done abroad, how others run, ride, turmoil, in court and
country. Amid the gallantry and misery of the world, jollity, pride,
perplexities and cares, simplicity and villainy, subtlety, knavery,
candour, and integrity, I rub on in private, left to a solitary life
and mine own domestic discontents.

So I call myself Democritus, to assume a little more liberty of speech,
or, if you will needs know, for that reason which Hippocrates relates,
how, coming to visit him one day, he found Democritus in his garden
at Abdera, under a shady bower, with a book on his knees, busy at
his study, sometimes writing, sometimes walking. The subject of his
book was melancholy and madness. About him lay the carcasses of many
several beasts, newly by him cut up and anatomised; not that he did
contemn God's creatures, but to find out the seat of this black bile,
or melancholy, and how it is engendered in men's bodies, to the intent
he might better cure it in himself, and by his writings teach others
how to avoid it; which good intent of his Democritus Junior is bold to
imitate, and because he left it imperfect and it is now lost, to revive
again, prosecute, and finish in this treatise. I seek not applause; I
fear good men's censures, and to their favourable acceptance I submit
my labours. But as the barking of a dog I contemn those malicious and
scurrile obloquies, flouts, calumnies of railers and detractors.

Of the necessity of what I have said, if any man doubt of it, I shall
desire him to make a brief survey of the world, as Cyprian adviseth
Donate; supposing himself to be transported to the top of some high
mountain, and thence to behold the tumults and chances of this wavering
world, he cannot choose but either laugh at, or pity it. St. Hierom,
out of a strong imagination, being in the wilderness, conceived that he
saw them dancing in Rome; and if thou shalt climb to see, thou shalt
soon perceive that all the world is mad, that it is melancholy, dotes;
that it is a common prison of gulls, cheats, flatterers, etc., and
needs to be reformed. Kingdoms and provinces are melancholy; cities
and families, all creatures vegetal, sensible and rational, all sorts,
sects, ages, conditions, are out of tune; from the highest to the
lowest have need of physic. Who is not brain-sick? Oh, giddy-headed
age! Mad endeavours! Mad actions!

If Democritus were alive now, and should but see the superstition of
our age, our religious madness, so many professed Christians, yet so
few imitators of Christ, so much talk and so little conscience, so many
preachers and such little practice, such variety of sects--how dost
thou think he might have been affected? What would he have said to see,
hear, and read so many bloody battles, such streams of blood able to
turn mills, to make sport for princes, without any just cause? Men well
proportioned, carefully brought up, able in body and mind, led like
so many beasts to the slaughter in the flower of their years, without
remorse and pity, killed for devils' food, 40,000 at once! At once?
That were tolerable; but these wars last always; and for many ages,
nothing so familiar as this hacking and hewing, massacres, murders,
desolations! Who made creatures, so peaceable, born to love, mercy,
meekness, so to rave like beasts and run to their own destruction?

How would our Democritus have been affected to see so many lawyers,
advocates, so many tribunals, so little justice; so many laws, yet
never more disorders; the tribunal a labyrinth; to see a lamb executed,
a wolf pronounce sentence? What's the market but a place wherein they
cozen one another, a trap? Nay, what's the world itself but a vast
chaos, a theatre of hypocrisy, a shop of knavery, a scene of babbling,
the academy of vice? A warfare, in which you must kill or be killed,
wherein every man is for himself; no charity, love, friendship, fear of
God, alliance, affinity, consanguinity, can contain them. Our goddess
is Queen Money, to whom we daily offer sacrifice. It's not worth,
virtue, wisdom, valour, learning, honesty, religion, for which we are
respected, but money, greatness, office, honour. All these things are
easy to be discerned, but how would Democritus have been moved had he
seen the secrets of our hearts! All the world is mad, and every member
of it, and I can but wish myself and them a good physician, and all of
us a better mind.


_II.--The Causes of Melancholy_

The impulsive cause of these miseries in man was the sin of our first
parent, Adam; and this, belike, is that which our poets have shadowed
unto us in the tale of Pandora's Box, which, being opened through
her curiosity, filled the world full of all manner of diseases. But
as our sins are the principal cause, so the instrumental causes of
our infirmities are as diverse as the infirmities themselves. Stars,
heavens, elements, and all those creatures which God hath made, are
armed against sinners. But the greatest enemy to man is man, his own
executioner, a wolf, a devil to himself and others. Again, no man
amongst us so sound that hath not some impediment of body or mind.
There are diseases acute and chronic, first and secondary, lethal,
salutary, errant, fixed, simple, compound, etc. Melancholy is the most
eminent of the diseases of the phantasy or imagination; and dotage,
phrensy, madness, hydrophobia, lycanthropy, St. Vitus' dance, and
ecstasy are forms of it.

Melancholy is either in disposition or habit. In disposition it is that
transitory melancholy which comes and goes upon every small occasion
of sorrow; we call him melancholy that is dull, sad, sour, lumpish,
ill-disposed, and solitary; and from these dispositions no man living
is free; none so wise, patient, happy, generous, or godly, that can
vindicate himself.

Melancholy is a cold and dry, thick, black, and sour humour, purged
from the spleen; it is a bridle to the other two hot humours, blood and
choler, preserving them in the blood and nourishing the bones. Such as
have the Moon, Saturn, Mercury, misaffected in their genitures; such as
live in over-cold or over-hot climates; such as are solitary by nature;
great students, given to much contemplation; such as lead a life out of
action; all are most subject to melancholy.

Six things are much spoken of amongst physicians as principal causes
of this disease; if a man be melancholy, he hath offended in one of
the six. They are diet, air, exercise, sleeping, and walking, and
perturbations of the mind.

Idleness, the badge of gentry, or want of exercise, the bane of body
and mind, the nurse of naughtiness, the chief author of all mischief,
one of the seven deadly sins, and a sole cause of this and many other
maladies, the devil's cushion and chief reposal, begets melancholy
sooner than anything else. Such as live at ease, and have no ordinary
employment to busy themselves about, cannot compose themselves to do
aught; they cannot abide work, though it be necessary, easy, as to
dress themselves, write a letter, or the like. He or she that is idle,
be they never so rich, fortunate, happy, let them have all that heart
can desire, they shall never be pleased, never well in body and mind,
but weary still, sickly still, vexed still, loathing still, weeping,
sighing, grieving, suspecting, offended with the world, with every
object, wishing themselves gone or dead, or else carried away with some
foolish phantasy or other.

Others, giving way to the passions and perturbations of fear, grief,
shame, revenge, hatred, malice, etc., are torn in pieces, as Actæon was
with his dogs, and crucify their own souls. Every society and private
family is full of envy; it takes hold of all sorts of men, from prince
to ploughman; scarce three in a company, but there is siding, faction,
emulation, between two of them, some jar, private grudge, heart-burning
in the midst. Scarce two great scholars in an age, but with bitter
invectives they fall foul one on the other. Being that we are so
peevish and perverse, insolent and proud, so factious and seditious,
malicious and envious, we do maul and vex one another, torture,
disquiet, and precipitate ourselves into that gulf of woes and cares,
aggravate our misery and melancholy, and heap upon us hell and eternal
damnation.


_III.--The Cure of Melancholy_

"It matters not," saith Paracelsus, "whether it be God or the devil,
angels or unclean spirits, cure him, so that he be eased." Some have
recourse to witches; but much better were it for patients that are
troubled with melancholy to endure a little misery in this life than
to hazard their souls' health for ever. All unlawful cures are to be
refused, and it remains to treat of those that are admitted.

These are such as God hath appointed, by virtue of stones, herbs,
plants, meats, and the like, which are prepared and applied to our use
by the art and industry of physicians, God's intermediate ministers.
We must begin with prayer and then use physic; not one without the
other, but both together.

Diet must be rectified in substance and in quantity; air rectified;
for there is much in choice of place and of chamber, in opportune
opening and shutting of windows, and in walking abroad at convenient
times. Exercise must be rectified of body and mind. Hawking, hunting,
fishing are good, especially the last, which is still and quiet, and
if so be the angler catch no fish, yet he hath a wholesome walk and
pleasant shade by the sweet silver streams. But the most pleasant of
all pastimes is to make a merry journey now and then with some good
companions, to visit friends, see cities, castles, towns, to walk
amongst orchards, gardens, bowers, to disport in some pleasant plain.
St. Bernard, in the description of his monastery, is almost ravished
with the pleasures of it. "Good God," saith he, "what a company of
pleasures hast Thou made for man!" But what is so fit and proper to
expel idleness and melancholy as study? What so full of content as
to read, and see maps, pictures, statues, jewels, and marbles, so
exquisite to be beheld that, as Chrysostom thinketh, "if any man be
sickly or troubled in mind, and shall but stand over against one of
Phidias's images, he will forget all care in an instant?"

If thou receivest wrong, compose thyself with patience to bear it.
Thou shalt find greatest ease to be quiet. I say the same of scoffs,
slanders, detractions, which tend to our disgrace; 'tis but opinion;
if we would neglect or contemn them, they would reflect disgrace on
them that offered them. "Yea, but I am ashamed, disgraced, degraded,
exploded; my notorious crimes and villainies are come to light!" Be
content; 'tis but a nine days' wonder; 'tis heavy, ghastly, fearful
news at first, but thine offence will be forgotten in an instant. Thou
art not the first offender, nor shalt thou be the last. If he alone
should accuse thee that were faultless, how many executioners, how
many accusers, would thou have? Shall every man have his desert, thou
wouldst peradventure be a saint in comparison. Be not dismayed; it is
human to err. Be penitent, ask forgiveness, and vex thyself no more.
Doth the moon care for the barking of a dog?


_IV.--Love-Melancholy_

There will not be wanting those who will much discommend this treatise
of love-melancholy, and object that it is too light for a divine,
too phantastical, and fit only for a wanton poet. So that they may
be admired for grave philosophers, and staid carriage, they cannot
abide to hear talk of love-toys; in all their outward actions they are
averse; and yet, in their cogitations, they are all but as bad, if not
worse than others. I am almost afraid to relate the passions which this
tyrant love causeth among men; it hath wrought such stupendous and
prodigious effects, such foul offences.

As there be divers causes of this heroical love, so there be many good
remedies, among which good counsel and persuasion are of great moment,
especially if it proceed from a wise, fatherly, discreet person. They
will lament and howl for a while; but let him proceed, by foreshewing
the miserable dangers that will surely happen, the pains of hell, joys
of paradise, and the like; and this is a very good means, for love is
learned of itself, but hardly left without a tutor.

In sober sadness, marriage is a bondage, a thraldom, a hindrance to all
good enterprises; "he hath married a wife, and therefore cannot come";
a rock on which many are saved, many are cast away. Not that the thing
is evil in itself, or troublesome, but full of happiness, and a thing
which pleases God; but to indiscreet, sensual persons, it is a feral
plague, many times an hell itself. If thy wife be froward, all is in
an uproar; if wise and learned, she will be insolent and peevish; if
poor, she brings beggary; if young, she is wanton and untaught. Say
the best, she is a commanding servant; thou hadst better have taken a
good housewifely maid in her smock. Since, then, there is such hazard,
keep thyself as thou art; 'tis good to match, much better to be free.
Consider withal how free, how happy, how secure, how heavenly, in
respect, a single man is.

But when all is said, since some be good, some bad, let's put it to the
venture. Marry while thou mayest, and take thy fortune as it falls.
Be not so covetous, so distrustful, so curious and nice, but let's
all marry; to-morrow is St. Valentine's Day. Since, then, marriage
is the last and best cure of heroical love, all doubts are cured and
impediments removed; God send us all good wives!

Take this for a corollory and conclusion; as thou tenderest thine own
welfare in love-melancholy, in the melancholy of religion, and in all
other melancholy; observe this short precept--Be not solitary; be not
idle.




THOMAS CARLYLE

On Heroes and Hero-Worship

  This is the last of four series of lectures which Carlyle (see
  Vol. IX, p. 99) delivered in London in successive years, and is
  the only series which was published. The "Lectures on Heroes"
  were given in May, 1840, and were published, with emendations
  and additions, from the reporter's notes in 1841. The preceding
  series were on "German Literature," 1837; "The Successive Periods
  of European Culture," 1838; and "The Revolutions of Modern
  Europe," 1839. Carlyle's profound and impassioned belief in the
  quasi-divine inspiration of great men, in the authoritative
  nature of their "message," and in their historical effectiveness,
  was a reaction against a way of writing history which finds the
  origin of events in "movements," "currents," and "tendencies"
  neglecting or minimising the power of personality. For Carlyle,
  biography was the essential element in history; his view of
  events was the dramatic view, as opposed to the scientific
  view. It is idle to inquire which is the better or truer view,
  where both are necessary. But Carlyle is here specially tilting
  against a prejudice which has so utterly passed away that it
  is difficult even to imagine it. This was to the effect that
  eminent historical figures have been in some sense impostors.
  This work suffers a good deal from its origin, but, like others
  of Carlyle's writings, it has had great effect in discrediting a
  barren and flippant rationalism.


_I.--The Hero as Divinity_

We have undertaken to discourse on great men, their manner of
appearance in our world's business, how they shaped themselves in the
world's history, what ideas men formed of them, and what work they did.
We are to treat of hero-worship and the heroic in human affairs. The
topic is as wide as universal history itself, for the history of what
man has accomplished in this world is, at bottom, the history of the
great men who have worked here.

It is well said that a man's religion is the chief fact with regard to
him. I do not mean the Church creed which he professes, but the thing
that he does practically believe, the manner in which he feels himself
to be spiritually related to the unseen world. Was it heathenism, a
plurality of gods, a mere sensuous representation of the mystery of
life, and for chief recognised element therein physical force? Was it
Christianism; faith in an Invisible as the only reality; time ever
resting on eternity; pagan empire of force displaced by the nobler
supremacy of holiness? Was it scepticism, uncertainty, and inquiry
whether there was an unseen world at all, or perhaps unbelief and flat
denial? The answer to these questions gives us the soul of the history
of the man or nation.

Odin, the central figure of Scandinavian paganism, shall be our emblem
of the hero as divinity. And in the first place I protest against the
theory that this paganism or any other religion has consisted of mere
quackery, priestcraft, and dupery. Quackery gives birth to nothing;
gives death to all. Man everywhere is the born enemy of lies, and
paganism, to its followers, was at one time earnestly true. Nor can
we admit that other theory, which attributed these mythologies to
allegory, or to the play of poetic minds. Pagan religion, like every
other, is indeed a symbol of what men felt about the universe, but a
practical guiding knowledge of this mysterious life of theirs, and not
a perfect poetic symbol of it, has been the want of men. The "Pilgrim's
Progress" is a just and beautiful allegory, but it could never have
preceded the faith which it symbolises. Men never risked their soul's
life on allegories; there was a kind of fact at the heart of paganism.

To the primitive pagan thinker, who was simple as a child, yet had
a man's depth and strength, nature had as yet no name. It stood
naked, flashing in on him, beautiful, awful, unspeakable; nature was
preternatural. The world, which is now divine only to the gifted, was
then divine to whosoever would turn his eye upon it. Still more was the
body of man, and the mystery of his consciousness, an emblem to them of
God, and truly worshipful.

How much more, then, was the worship of a hero reasonable--the
transcendent admiration of a great man! For great men are still
admirable. At bottom there is nothing else admirable. Admiration for
one higher than himself is to this hour the vivifying influence in
man's life, and is the germ of Christianity itself. The greatest of all
heroes is One whom we do not name here.

Without doubt there was a first teacher and captain of these northern
peoples, an Odin palpable to the sense, a real hero of flesh and blood.
Tradition calls him inventor of the Runes, or Scandinavian alphabet,
and again of poetry. To the wild Norse souls this noble-hearted man was
hero, prophet, god. That the man Odin, speaking with a hero's voice and
heart, as with an impressiveness out of Heaven, told his people the
infinite importance of valour, how man thereby became a god; and that
his people believed this message of his, and thought it a message out
of Heaven, and believed him a divinity for telling it to them--this
seems to me the primary seed-grain of the Norse religion. For that
religion was a sternly impressive consecration of valour.


_II.--The Hero as Prophet_

We turn now to Mohammedanism among the Arabs for the second phase of
hero-worship, wherein the hero is not now regarded as a god, but as
one God-inspired, a prophet. Mohammed is not the most eminent prophet,
but is the one of whom we are freest to speak. Nor is he the truest of
prophets but I do esteem him a true one. Let us try to understand what
he meant with the world; what the world meant and means with him will
then be more answerable.

Certainly he was no scheming impostor, no falsehood incarnate; theories
of that kind are the product of an age of scepticism, and indicate the
saddest spiritual paralysis. A false man found a religion? Why, a false
man cannot build a brick house! No Mirabeau, Napoleon, Burns, Cromwell,
no man adequate to do anything, but is first of all in right earnest
about it. Sincerity is the great characteristic of all men in any way
heroic.

The Arabs are a notable people; their country itself is notable.
Consider that wide, waste horizon of sand, empty, silent like a sea;
you are all alone there, left alone with the universe; by day a fierce
sun blazing down with intolerable radiance; by night the great deep
heaven, with its stars--a fit country for a swift-handed, deep-hearted
race of men. The Arab character is agile, active, yet most meditative,
enthusiastic. Hospitable, taciturn, earnest, truthful, deeply
religious, the Arabs were a people of great qualities, waiting for the
day when they should become notable to all the world.

Here, in the year 570 of our era, the man Mohammed was born, and grew
up in the bosom of the wilderness, alone with Nature and his own
thoughts. From an early age he had been remarked as a thoughtful man,
and his companions named him "The Faithful." He was forty before he
talked of any mission from Heaven. All this time living a peaceful
life, he was looking through the shows of things into things themselves.

Then, having withdrawn to a cavern near Mecca for a month of prayer and
meditation, he told his wife Kadijah that, by the unspeakable favour of
Heaven, he was in doubt and darkness no longer, but saw it all. That
all these idols and formulas were nothing; that there was one God in
and over all; that God is great and is the reality. _Allah akbar_,
"God is great"; and then _Islam_, "we must submit to Him."

This is yet the only true morality known. A man is right and
invincible, while he joins himself to the great deep law of the
world, in spite of all superficial laws, temporary appearances,
profit-and-loss calculations. This is the soul of Islam, and is
properly also the soul of Christianity. We are to receive whatever
befalls us as sent from God above. Islam means in its way the denial
of self, annihilation of self. This is yet the highest wisdom that
Heaven has revealed to our earth. In Mohammed, and in his Koran, I
find first of all sincerity, the total freedom from cant. For these
twelve centuries his religion has been the guidance of a fifth part of
mankind, and, above all, it has been a religion heartily believed.

The Arab nation was a poor shepherd people; a hero-prophet was sent
down to them; within one century afterwards Arabia is at Grenada on
this hand, at Delhi on that!


_III.--The Hero as Poet_

The hero as divinity and as prophet are productions of old ages, not
to be repeated in the new. We are now to see our hero in the less
ambitious, but also less questionable, character of poet. For the hero
can be poet, prophet, king, priest, or what you will, according to the
kind of world he finds himself born into. I have no notion of a truly
great man that could not be all sorts of men.

Indeed, the poet and prophet, participators in the open secret of the
universe, are one; though the prophet has seized the sacred mystery
rather on its moral side, and the poet on the æsthetic side. Poetry is
essentially a song; its thoughts are musical not in word only, but in
heart and in substance.

Shakespeare and Dante are our two canonised poets; they dwell
apart, none equal, none second to them. Dante's book was written, in
banishment, with his heart's blood. His great soul, homeless on earth,
made its home more and more in that awful other world. The three
kingdoms--_Inferno_, _Purgatorio_, _Paradiso_--are like compartments of
a great supernatural world-cathedral, piled up there, stern, solemn,
awful; Dante's world of souls. It is the sincerest of all poems.
Sincerity here, too, we find to be the measure of worth. Intensity is
the prevailing character of his genius; his greatness lies in fiery
emphasis and depth; it is seen even in the graphic vividness of his
painting. Dante burns as a pure star, fixed in the firmament, at which
the great and high of all ages kindle themselves.

As Dante embodies musically the inner life of the Middle Ages, so
Shakespeare embodies for us its outer life, its chivalries, courtesies,
humours, ambitions. Dante gave us the soul of Europe; Shakespeare gave
us its body. Of this Shakespeare of ours, the best judgment of Europe
is slowly pointing to the conclusion that he is the chief of all poets,
the greatest intellect who has left record of himself in the way of
literature.

It is in portrait-painting, the delineation of men, that the greatness
of Shakespeare comes out most decisively. His calm, creative
perspicacity is unexampled. The word that will describe the thing
follows of itself from such clear intense sight of the thing. He takes
in all kinds of men--a Falstaff, Othello, Juliet, Coriolanus; sets them
all forth to us in their rounded completeness, loving, just, the equal
brother of all.

The degree of vision that dwells in a man is a correct measure of
the man, and Shakespeare's is the greatest of intellects. Novalis
beautifully remarks of him that those dramas of his are products of
nature, too, deep as nature herself. Shakespeare's art is not artifice;
the noblest worth of it is not there by plan or pre-contrivance. The
latest generations of men will find new meanings in Shakespeare, new
elucidations of their own human being.

Shakespeare, too, was a prophet, in his way, of an insight analogous to
the prophetic, though he took it up in another strain. Nature seemed to
this man also divine, unspeakable, deep as Tophet, high as heaven. "We
are such stuff as dreams are made of." There rises a kind of universal
psalm out of Shakespeare, not unfit to make itself heard among the
still more sacred psalms.

England, before long, this island of ours, will hold but a small
fraction of the English; east and west to the antipodes there will be a
Saxondom covering great spaces of the globe. What is it that can keep
all these together into virtually one nation, so that they do not fall
out and fight, but live at peace? Here, I say, is an English king whom
no time or chance can dethrone! King Shakespeare shines over us all, as
the noblest, gentlest, yet strongest of rallying-signs; we can fancy
him as radiant aloft over all the nations of Englishmen, a thousand
years hence. Truly it is a great thing for a nation that it gets an
articulate voice.


_IV.--The Hero as Priest_

The priest, too, is a kind of prophet. In him, also, there is required
to be a light of inspiration. He presides over the worship of the
people, and is the uniter of them with the unseen Holy. He is their
spiritual captain, as the prophet is their spiritual king with many
captains.

Luther and Knox were by express vocation priests, yet it will suit us
better here to consider them chiefly in their historical character as
reformers. The battling reformer is from time to time a needful and
inevitable phenomenon. Obstructions are never wanting; the very things
that were once indispensable furtherances become obstructions, and
need to be shaken off and left behind us--a business often of enormous
difficulty.

We are to consider Luther as an idol-breaker, a bringer back of men to
reality, for that is the function of great men and teachers. Thus it
was that Luther said to the Pope, "This thing of yours that you call a
pardon of sins, is a bit of rag-paper with ink. It, and so much like
it, is nothing else. God alone can pardon sins. God's Church is not a
semblance, Heaven and Hell are not semblances. Standing on this, I, a
poor German monk, am stronger than you all."

The most interesting phase which the Reformation anywhere assumes
is that of Puritanism, which even got itself established as a
Presbyterianism and National Church among the Scotch, and has produced
in the world very notable fruit. Knox was the chief priest and founder
of that faith which became the faith of Scotland, of New England, of
Oliver Cromwell; and that which Knox did for his nation we may really
call a resurrection as from death. The people began to live. Scotch
literature and thought, Scotch industry, James Watt, David Hume, Walter
Scott, Robert Burns--I find Knox and the Reformation acting in the
heart's core of every one of these persons and phenomena; I find that
without the Reformation they would not have been.

Knox could not live but by fact. He is an instance to us how a
man, by sincerity itself, becomes heroic. We find in Knox a good,
honest, intellectual talent, no transcendent one; he was a narrow,
inconsiderable man as compared with Luther; but in heartfelt,
instinctive adherence to truth, in real sincerity, he has no superior.
His heart is of the true prophet cast. "He lies there," said the Earl
of Morton, at his grave, "who never feared the face of man."


_V.--The Hero as Man of Letters_

The hero as man of letters is a new and singular phenomenon. Living
in his squalid garret and rusty coat; ruling from his grave after
death whole nations and generations; he must be regarded as our most
important modern person. Such as he may be, he is the soul of all.
Intrinsically it is the same function which the old generations named a
prophet, priest, or divinity for doing.

The three great prophets of the eighteenth century, that singular
age of scepticism, were Johnson, Rousseau, and Burns; they were not,
indeed, heroic bringers of the light, but heroic seekers of it,
struggling under mountains of impediment.

As for Johnson, I have always considered him to be, by nature, one of
our great English souls. It was in virtue of his sincerity, of his
speaking still in some sort from the heart of nature, though in the
current artificial dialect, that Johnson was a prophet. The highest
gospel he preached was a kind of moral prudence, coupled with this
other great gospel, "Clear your mind of cant!" These two things, joined
together, were, perhaps, the greatest gospel that was possible at that
time.

Of Rousseau and his heroism I cannot say so much. He was not a strong
man; but a morbid, excitable, spasmodic man; at best, intense rather
than strong. Yet, at least he was heartily in earnest, if ever man was;
his ideas possessed him like demons.

The fault and misery of Rousseau was egoism, which is the source and
summary of all faults and miseries whatsoever. He had not perfected
himself into victory over mere desire; a mean hunger was still his
motive principle. He was a very vain man, hungry for the praises of
men. The whole nature of the man was poisoned; there was nothing but
suspicion, self-isolation, and fierce, moody ways.

And yet this Rousseau, with his celebrations of nature, even of savage
life in nature, did once more touch upon reality and struggle towards
reality. Strangely through all that defacement, degradation, and almost
madness, there is in the inmost heart of poor Rousseau a spark of
real heavenly fire. Out of all that withered, mocking philosophism,
scepticism, and persiflage of his day there has arisen in this man the
ineradicable feeling and knowledge that this life of ours is true, not
a theorem, but a fact.

The French Revolution found its evangelist in Rousseau. His
semi-delirious speculations on the miseries of civilised life, and such
like, helped to produce a delirium in France generally. It is difficult
to say what the governors of the world could do with such a man. What
he could do with them is clear enough--guillotine a great many of them.

The tragedy of Burns's life is known to all. The largest soul of all
the British lands appeared under every disadvantage; uninstructed,
poor, born only to hard manual toil; and writing, when it came to that,
in a rustic special dialect, known only to a small province of the
country he lived in.

We find in Burns a noble, rough genuineness, the true simplicity of
strength, and a deep and earnest element of sunshine and joyfulness;
yet the chief quality, both of his poetry and of his life, is
sincerity--a wild wrestling with the truth of things.


_VI.--The Hero as King_

The commander over men, to whose will our wills are to be subordinated
and loyally surrender themselves, and find their welfare in doing
so, may be reckoned the most important of great men. He is called
_Rex_, "Regulator"; our own name is still better--king, which means
"can-ning," "able-man."

In rebellious ages, when kingship itself seems dead and abolished,
Cromwell and Napoleon step forth again as kings. The old ages are
brought back to us; the manner in which kings were made, and kingship
itself first took rise, is again exhibited in the history of these two.

The war of the Puritans was a section of that universal war which alone
makes up the true history of the world--the war of Belief against
Unbelief; the struggle of men intent on the real essence of things,
against men intent on the semblances and forms of things. And among
these Puritans Cromwell stood supreme, grappling like a giant, face
to face, heart to heart, with the naked truth of things. Yet Cromwell
alone finds no hearty apologist anywhere. Selfish ambition, dishonesty,
duplicity; a fierce, coarse, hypocritical Tartuffe; turning all that
noble struggle for constitutional liberty into a sorry farce played for
his own benefit. This, and worse, is the character they give him.

From of old, this theory of Cromwell's falsity has been incredible to
me. All that we know of him betokens an earnest, hearty sincerity.
Everywhere we have to note his decisive, practical eye, how he drives
towards the practicable, and has a genuine insight into what is fact.
Such an intellect does not belong to a false man; the false man sees
false shows, plausibilities, expediences; the true man is needed to
discern even practical truth.

Napoleon by no means seems to me so great a man as Cromwell. His
enormous victories which reached over all Europe, while Cromwell abode
mainly in our little England, are but as the high stilts on which the
man is seen standing; the stature of the man is not altered thereby. I
find in him no such sincerity as in Cromwell; only a far inferior sort.

"False as a bulletin," became a proverb in Napoleon's time. Yet he had
a sincerity, a certain instinctive, ineradicable feeling for reality;
and did base himself upon fact, so long as he had any basis. He had an
instinct of Nature better than his culture was. His companions, we are
told, were one evening busily occupied arguing that there could be no
God; they had proved it by all manner of logic. Napoleon, looking up
into the stars, answers, "Very ingenious, Messieurs; but who made all
that?" The atheistic logic runs off from him like water; the great fact
stares him in the face. So, too, in practice; he, as every man that can
be great, sees, through all entanglements, the practical heart of the
matter, and drives straight towards that.

Accordingly, there was a faith in him, genuine so far as it went. That
this new, enormous democracy is an insuppressible fact, which the
whole world cannot put down--this was a true insight of his, and took
his conscience and enthusiasm along with it. And did he not interpret
the dim purport of it well? _La carrière ouverte aux talents_--"the
implements to him who can handle them"--this actually is the truth, and
even the whole truth; it includes whatever the French Revolution or any
revolution could mean. It is a great, true message from our last great
man.




Sartor Resartus

  "Sartor Resartus," first published in "Frazer's Magazine" in
  1833-34, is Thomas Carlyle's most popular work, and is largely
  autobiographical.


I.--_The Philosophy of Clothes_

Considering our present advanced state of culture, and how the torch
of science has now been brandished and borne about, with more or
less effect, for five thousand years and upwards, it is surprising
that hitherto little or nothing of a fundamental character, whether
in the way of philosophy or history, has been written on the subject
of clothes. Every other tissue has been dissected, but the vestural
tissue of woollen or other cloth, which man's soul wears as its outmost
wrappage, has been quite overlooked. All speculation has tacitly
figured man as a clothed animal, whereas he is by nature a naked
animal, and only in certain circumstances, by purpose and device, masks
himself in clothes.

But here, as in so many other cases, learned, indefatigable,
deep-thinking Germany comes to our aid. The editor of these sheets
has lately received a new book from Professor Teufelsdröckh, of
Weissnichtwo, treating expressly of "Clothes, their Origin and
Influence" (1831). This extensive volume, a very sea of thought,
discloses to us not only a new branch of philosophy, but also
the strange personal character of Professor Teufelsdröckh, which
is scarcely less interesting. We were just considering how the
extraordinary doctrines of this book might best be imparted to our
own English nation, when we received a letter from Herr Hofrath
Heuschrecke, our professor's chief associate, offering us the requisite
documents for a biography of Teufelsdröckh. This was the origin of our
"Sartor Resartus," now presented in the vehicle of "Frazer's Magazine."

Professor Teufelsdröckh, when we knew him at Weissnichtwo, lived a
still and self-contained life, devoted to the higher philosophies and
to a certain speculative radicalism. The last words that he spoke in
our hearing were to propose a toast in the coffee-house--"The cause of
the poor, in heaven's name and the devil's." But we looked for nothing
moral from him, still less anything didactico-religious.

Brave Teufelsdröckh, who could tell what lurked in thee? In thine eyes,
deep under thy shaggy brows, and looking out so still and dreamy,
have we not noticed gleams of an ethereal or else a diabolic fire?
Our friend's title was that of Professor of Things in General, but he
never delivered any course. We used to sit with him in his attic,
overlooking the town; he would contemplate that wasp-nest or bee-hive
spread out below him, and utter the strangest thoughts. "That living
flood, pouring through these streets, is coming from eternity, going
onward to eternity. These are apparitions. What else?" Thus he lived
and meditated with Heuschrecke as Boswell for his Johnson.

"As Montesquieu wrote a 'Spirit of Laws,'" observes our professor, "so
could I write a 'Spirit of Clothes,' for neither in tailoring nor in
legislating does man proceed by mere accident, but the hand is ever
guided by the mysterious operations of the mind." And so he deals with
Paradise and fig-leaves, and proceeds to view the costumes of all
mankind, in all countries, in all times.

The first purpose of clothes, he imagines, was not warmth or decency,
but ornament. "Yet what have they not become? Increased security
and pleasurable heat soon followed; divine shame or modesty, as yet
a stranger to the anthropophagous bosom, arose there mysteriously
under clothes, a mystic shrine for the holy in man. Clothes gave us
individuality, distinctions, social polity; clothes have made men of
us; they are threatening to make clothes-screens of us."

Teufelsdröckh dwells chiefly on the seams, tatters, and unsightly
wrong-side of clothes, but he has also a superlative transcendentalism.
To him, man is a soul, a spirit, and divine apparition, whose flesh
and senses are but a garment. He deals much in the feeling of wonder,
insisting that wonder is the only reasonable temper for the denizen
of our planet. "Wonder," he says, "is the basis of worship," and
that progress of science, which is to destroy wonder and substitute
mensuration and numeration, finds small favour with him. "Clothes,
despicable as we think them, are unspeakably significant."


_II.--Biography of Teufelsdröckh_

So far as we can gather from the disordered papers which have been
placed in our hands, the genesis of Diogenes Teufelsdröckh is obscure.
We see nothing but an exodus out of invisibility into visibility.
In the village of Entepfuhl we find a childless couple, verging on
old age. Andreas Futteral, who has been a grenadier sergeant under
Frederick the Great, is now cultivating a little orchard. To him and
Gretchen his wife there entered one evening a stranger of reverend
aspect, who deposited a silk-covered basket, saying, "Good people, here
is an invaluable loan; take all heed thereof; with high recompense, or
else with heavy penalty, will it one day be required back." Therein
they found, as soon as he had departed, a little infant in the softest
sleep. Our philosopher tells us that this story, told him in his
twelfth year, produced a quite indelible impression. Who was his
unknown father, whom he was never able to meet?

We receive glimpses of his childhood, schooldays, and university life,
and then meet with him in that difficulty, common to young men, of
"getting under way." "Not what I have," he says, "but what I do, is my
kingdom; and we should grope throughout our lives from one expectation
and disappointment to another were we not saved by one thing--our
hunger." He had thrown up his legal profession, and found himself
without landmark of outward guidance; whereby his previous want of
decided belief, or inward guidance, is frightfully aggravated. So he
sets out over an unknown sea; but a certain Calypso Island at the very
outset falsifies his whole reckoning.

"Nowhere," he says, "does Heaven so immediately reveal itself to the
young man as in the young maiden. The feeling of our young forlorn
towards the queens of this earth was, and indeed is, altogether
unspeakable. A visible divinity dwelt in them; to our young friend all
women were holy, were heavenly. And if, on a soul so circumstanced,
some actual air-maiden should cast kind eyes, saying thereby, 'Thou
too mayest love and be loved,' and so kindle him--good Heaven, what an
all-consuming fire were probably kindled!"

Such a fire of romance did actually burst forth in Herr Diogenes.
We know not who "Blumine" was, nor how they met. She was young,
hazel-eyed, beautiful, high-born, and of high spirit, but unhappily
dependent and insolvent, living perhaps on the bounty of moneyed
relatives. "To our friend the hours seemed moments; holy was he and
happy; the words from those sweetest lips came over him like dew on
thirsty grass. At parting, the Blumine's hand was in his; in the balmy
twilight, with the kind stars above them, he spoke something of meeting
again, which was not contradicted; he pressed gently those soft,
small fingers, and it seemed as if they were not hastily, not angrily
withdrawn."

Poor Teufelsdröckh, it is clear to demonstration thou art smit!
Flame-clad, thou art scaling the upper Heaven, and verging towards
insanity, for prize of a high-souled brunette, as if the earth held but
one and not several of these! "One morning, he found his morning-star
all dimmed and dusky-red; doomsday had dawned; they were to meet no
more!" Their lips were joined for the first time and the last, and
Teufelsdröckh was made immortal by a kiss. And then--"thick curtains
of night rushed over his soul, and he fell, through the ruins as of a
shivered universe, towards the abyss."

He quietly lifts his pilgrim-staff, and begins a perambulation and
circumambulation of the terraqueous globe. We find him in Paris, in
Vienna, in Tartary, in the Sahara, flying with hunger always parallel
to him, and a whole infernal chase in his rear. He traverses mountains
and valleys with aimless speed, writing with footprints his sorrows,
that his spirit may free herself, and he become a man. Vain truly
is the hope of your swiftest runner to escape from his own shadow!
We behold him, through these dim years, in a state of crisis, of
transition; his aimless pilgrimings are but a mad fermentation,
wherefrom, the fiercer it is, the clearer product will one day evolve
itself.

Man has no other possession but hope; this world of his is emphatically
the "Place of Hope"; yet our professor, for the present, is quite shut
out from hope. As he wanders wearisomely through this world he has
now lost all tidings of another and higher. "Doubt," says he, "had
darkened into unbelief." It is all a grim desert, this once fair world
of his; and no pillar of cloud by day, and no pillar of fire by night,
any longer guides the pilgrim. "Invisible yet impenetrable walls, as
of enchantment, divided me from all living; was there, in the wide
world, any true bosom I could press trustfully to mine? O Heaven, no,
there was none! To me the universe was all void of life, of purpose,
of volition, even of hostility; it was one huge, dead, immeasurable
steam-engine, rolling on, in its dead indifference, to grind me limb
from limb. O, the vast, gloomy, solitary Golgotha, and mill of death!

"Full of such humour, and perhaps the miserablest man in the whole
French capital or suburbs, was I, one sultry dog-day, after much
perambulation, toiling along the dirty little Rue Saint Thomas de
l'Enfer, among civic rubbish enough, in a close atmosphere, and over
pavements hot as Nebuchadnezzar's furnace; whereby doubtless my spirits
were a little cheered; when, all at once, there rose a thought in
me, and I asked myself, 'What _art_ thou afraid of? Wherefore, like
a coward, dost thou forever pip and whimper, and go cowering and
trembling? Despicable biped! what is the sum-total of the worst that
lies before thee? Death? Well, death; and say the pangs of Tophet too,
and all that the devil and man may, will, or can do against thee! Hast
thou not a heart; canst thou not suffer whatever it be; and, as a
child of freedom, though outcast, trample Tophet itself under thy feet,
while it consumes thee? Let it come, then; I will meet it and defy it!'
And, as I so thought, there rushed like a stream of fire over my whole
soul; and I shook base fear away from me for ever. Ever from that time,
the temper of my misery was changed; not fear or whining sorrow was it,
but indignation and grim fire-eyed defiance.

"Thus had the _Everlasting No_ pealed authoritatively through all the
recesses of my being, of my _Me_; and then was it that my whole _Me_
stood up, in native God-created majesty, and with emphasis recorded its
protest. The Everlasting No had said, 'Behold, thou art fatherless,
outcast, and the universe is mine, the devil's'; to which my whole _Me_
now made answer, 'I am not thine, but free, and for ever hate thee!'

"It is from this hour that I incline to date my spiritual new-birth,
or Baphometic Fire-baptism; perhaps I directly thereupon began to be a
man."

Our wanderer's unrest was for a time but increased. "Indignation and
defiance are not the most peaceable inmates," yet it was no longer
a quite hopeless unrest. He looked away from his own sorrows, over
the many-coloured world, and few periods of his life were richer in
spiritual culture than this. He had reached the Centre of Indifference
wherein he had accepted his own nothingness. "I renounced utterly, I
would hope no more and fear no more. To die or to live was to me alike
insignificant. Here, then, as I lay in that Centre of Indifference,
cast by benignant upper influence into a healing sleep, the heavy
dreams rolled gradually away, and I awoke to a new heaven and a new
earth. I saw that man can do without happiness and instead thereof find
blessedness. Love not pleasure; love God. This is the _Everlasting
Yea_, wherein all contradiction is solved; wherein whoso walks and
works, it is well with him. In this poor, miserable, hampered,
despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is
thy Ideal; work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free!
Produce! produce! Work while it is called to-day."


_III.--The Volume on Clothes_

In so capricious a work as this of the professor's, our course
cannot be straightforward, but only leap by leap, noting significant
indications here and there. Thus, "perhaps the most remarkable incident
in modern history," he says, "is George Fox's making to himself a suit
of leather, when, desiring meditation and devout prayer to God, he
took to the woods, chose the hollow of a tree for his lodging and wild
berries for his food, and for clothes stitched himself one perennial
suit of leather. Then was there in broad Europe one free man, and Fox
was he!"

Under the title "Church-Clothes," by which Teufelsdröckh signifies the
forms, the vestures, under which men have at various periods embodied
and represented for themselves the religious principle, he says, "These
are unspeakably the most important of all the vestures and garnitures
of human existence. Church-clothes are first spun and woven by society;
outward religion originates by society; society becomes possible by
religion."

Of "symbols," as means of concealment and yet of revelation, thus
uniting in themselves the efficacies at once of speech and of silence,
our professor writes, "In the symbol proper there is ever, more or
less distinctly and directly, some embodiment and revelation of the
Infinite; the Infinite is made to blend itself with the finite; to
stand visible, and, as it were, attainable there. Of this sort are all
true works of art; in them, if thou know a work of art from a daub of
artifice, wilt thou discern eternity looking through time; the God-like
rendered visible. But nobler than all in this kind are the lives of
heroic God-inspired men, for what other work of art is so divine?" And
again, "Of this be certain, wouldst thou plant for eternity, then plant
into the deep infinite faculties of man, his fantasy and heart; wouldst
thou plant for year and day, then plant into his shallow superficial
faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding."

As for Helotage, or that lot of the poor wherein no ray of heavenly nor
even of earthly knowledge visits him, Teufelsdröckh says, "That there
should one man die ignorant who had capacity for knowledge, this I call
a tragedy, were it to happen more than twenty times in the minute."

In another place, our professor meditates upon the awful procession of
mankind. "Like a God-created, fire-breathing spirit-host, we emerge
from the inane; haste stormfully across the astonished earth; then
plunge again into the inane. But whence?--O Heaven, whither? Sense
knows not; Faith knows not; only that it is through mystery to mystery,
from God and to God.

   "We are such stuff
    As dreams are made of, and our little life
    Is rounded with a sleep!"




MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO

Concerning Friendship

  The dialogue "Concerning Friendship" was composed immediately
  after the assassination of Julius Cæsar, and was suggested by the
  conduct of certain friends of the mighty dead, who were trying,
  in the name of friendship, to inflame the populace against the
  cause of the conspirators. (Cicero biography, see Vol. IX, p.
  155, and also p. 274 of the present volume.)


_A Dialogue_

FANNIUS: I agree with you, Lælius; never was man better known for
justice or for glory than Scipio Africanus. That is why everyone in
Rome is looking to you; everyone is asking me, and Scævola here, how
the wise Lælius is bearing the loss of his dead friend. For they call
you wise, you know, in the same sense as the oracle called Socrates
wise, because you believe that your happiness depends on yourself
alone, and that virtue can fortify the soul against every calamity. May
we know, then, how you bear your sorrow?

SCÆVOLA: He says truly; many have asked me the same question. I tell
them that you are composed and patient, though deeply touched by the
death of your dearest friend, and one of the greatest of men.

LÆLIUS: You have answered well. True it is that I sorrow for a friend
whose like I shall never see again; but it is also true that I need
no consolations, since I believe that no evil has befallen Scipio.
Whatever misfortune there is, is my misfortune, and any immoderate
distress would show self-love, not love for him. What a man he was!
Well, he is in heaven; and I sometimes hope that the friendship of
Scipio and Lælius may live in human memory.

FANNIUS: Yes--your friendship: what do you believe about friendship?

SCÆVOLA: That's what we want to know.

LÆLIUS: Who am I, to speak on such a subject all on a sudden? You
should go to these Greek professionals, who can spin you a discourse
on anything at a moment's notice. For my part, I can only advise
this--prize friendship above all earthly things. We seem to be made
for friendship; it is our great stand-by whether in weal or woe. Yet
I can say this too: friendship cannot be except among the good. I
don't mean a fantastical and unattainable pitch of goodness such as
the philosophers prate about; I mean the genuine, commonplace goodness
of flesh and blood, that actually exists. I mean such men as live in
honour, justice, and liberality, and are consistent, and are neither
covetous nor licentious, nor brazen-faced; such men are good enough for
us, because they follow Nature as far as they can.

Friendship consists of a perfect conformity of opinion upon all
subjects, divine and human, together with a feeling of kindness and
attachment. And though some prefer riches, health, power, honours,
or even pleasure, no greater boon than friendship, with the single
exception of wisdom, has been given by the gods to man. It is quite
true that our highest good depends on virtue; but virtue inevitably
begets and nourishes friendship. What a part, for instance, friendship
has played in the lives of the good men we have known--the Catos, the
Galli, the Scipios, and the like!

How manifold, again, are its benefits! What greater delight is there
than to have one with whom you may talk as if with yourself? One who
will joy in your good fortune, and bear the heaviest end of your
burdens! Other things are good for particular purposes, friendship
for all; neither water nor fire has so many uses. But in one respect
friendship transcends everything else: it throws a brilliant gleam of
hope over the future, and banishes despondency. Whoever has a true
friend sees in him a reflection of himself; and each is strong in the
strength and rich in the wealth of the other.

If you consider that the principle of harmony and benevolence is
necessary to the very existence of families and states, you will
understand how high a thing is friendship, in which that harmony and
benevolence reach their perfect flower. There was a philosopher of
Agrigentum who explained the properties of matter and the movements of
bodies in terms of affection and repulsion; and however that may be,
everyone knows that these are the real forces in human life. Who does
not applaud the friendship that shares in mortal dangers, whether in
real life or in the play?

SCÆVOLA: You speak highly of friendship. What are its principles and
duties?

LÆLIUS: Do we desire a friend because of our own weakness and
deficiency, in order that we may obtain from him what we lack
ourselves, repaying him by reciprocal service? Or is all that only an
incident of friendship, and does the bond derive from a remoter and
more beautiful origin, in the heart of Nature herself? For my part,
I take the latter view. Friendship is a natural emotion, and not an
arrangement of convenience. Its character may be recognised even in
the lower animals, and much more plainly in the love of human parents
for their children, and, most of all, in our affection for a congenial
friend, whom we see in an atmosphere of virtue and worth.

The other is not an ignoble theory, but it leaves us in the difficulty
that if it were true, the weakest, meanest, and poorest of humanity
would be the most inclined to friendship. But it is the strong, rich,
independent, and self-reliant man, deeply founded in wisdom and
dignity, who makes great friendships. What did Africanus need of me, or
I of him? Advantages followed, but they did not lead. But there are
people who will always be referring everything to the one principle of
self-advantage; they have no eyes for anything great and god-like. Let
us leave such theorists alone; the plain fact is, that whenever worth
is seen, love for it is enkindled. Associations founded upon interest
presently dissolve, because interest changes; but Nature never changes,
and therefore true friendships are imperishable.

Scipio used to say that it was exceedingly difficult to carry on a
friendship to the end of life, because the paths of interest so often
diverge. There may be competition for office, or a dishonorable request
may be refused, or some other accident may be fatal to the bond. This
refusal to join in a nefarious course of action is often the end of a
friendship, and it is worth inquiring how far the claims of affection
ought to extend. Tiberius Gracchus, when he troubled the state, was
deserted by almost all his friends; one of them who had assisted him
told me that he had such high regard for Gracchus that he could refuse
him nothing. "But what," said I, "if he had asked you to set fire to
the capitol?" "I would have done it!"

What an infamous confession! No degree of friendship can justify
a crime; and since virtue is the foundation of friendship, crime
must inevitably undermine it. Let this, then, be the rule of
friendship--never to make disgraceful requests, and never to grant them
when they are made.

Among the perverse, over-subtle ideas of certain Greek philosophers is
the maxim that we should be very cool in the matter of friendship. They
say that we have enough to do with our own affairs, without taking on
other people's affairs too; and that our minds cannot be serenely at
leisure if we are liable to be tortured by the sorrows of a friend.
They advise, also, that friendships should be sought for the sake of
protection, and not for the sake of kindliness. O noble philosophy!
They put out the sun in the heavens, and offer us instead a freedom
from care that is worse than worthless. Virtue has not a heart of
stone, but is gentle and compassionate, rejoicing with the joyful and
weeping with those who mourn. True virtue is never unsocial, never
haughty.

With regard to the limits of friendship, I have heard three several
maxims, but disapprove them all. First, that we ought to feel towards
our friend exactly as we feel towards ourselves. That would never
do; for we do many things for our friends that we should never think
of doing for ourselves. We ask favours and reprehend injuries for a
friend, where we would not solicit for, or defend, ourselves. Secondly,
that our kindness to a friend should be meted out in precise equipoise
to his kindness to us. This is too miserable a theory: friendship
is opulent and generous. The third is, that we should take our
friend's own estimate of himself, and act upon it. This is the worst
principle of the three; for if our friend is over-humble, diffident or
despondent, it is the very business of friendship to cheer him and urge
him on. But Scipio used to condemn yet another principle that is worse
still. Some one--he thought it must have been a bad man--once said that
we ought to remember in friendship that some day the friend might be an
enemy. How, in that state of mind, could one be a friend at all?

A sound principle, I think, is this. In the friendship of upright men
there ought to be an unrestricted communication of every interest,
every purpose, every inclination. Then, in any matter of importance
to the life or reputation of your friend, you may deviate a little
from the strictest line of conduct so long as you do not do anything
that is actually infamous. Then, with regard to the choice of friends,
Scipio used to say that men were more careful about their sheep and
goats than about their friends. Choose men of constancy, solidity, and
firmness; and until their trustworthiness has been tested, be moderate
in your affection and confidence. Seek first of all for sincerity. Your
friend should also have an open, genial, and sociable temper, and his
sympathies should be the same as yours. He must not be ready to believe
accusations. Lastly, his talk and manner should be debonair; we don't
want austerities and solemnities in friendship.

I have heard it suggested that we ought perhaps to prefer new friends
to old, as we prefer a young horse to an old one. Satiety should have
no place in friendship. Old wines are the best, and so are the friends
of many years. Do not despise the acquaintance that promises to ripen
into something better; but do not sacrifice for it the deeply rooted
intimacy. Even inanimate things take hold of our hearts by long custom;
we love the mountains and forests of our youth.

There is often a great disparity in respect of rank or talent between
intimate friends. Whenever that is so, let the superior place himself
on the level of the inferior; let him share all his advantages with his
friend. The best way to reap the full harvest of genius, or of merit,
or of any other excellence, is to encourage all one's kindred and
associates to enjoy it too. But if the superior ought to condescend to
the inferior, so the inferior ought to be free from envy. And let him
not make a fuss about such services as he has been able to render.

To pass from the noble friendships of the wise to more commonplace
intimacies, we cannot leave out of account the necessity that sometimes
arises of breaking off a friendship. A man falls into scandalous
courses, his disgrace is reflected on his companions, and their
relation must come to an end. Well, the end had best come gradually and
gently, unless the offence is so detestable that an abrupt and final
cutting of the acquaintance is absolutely inevitable. Disengage, if
possible, rather than cut. And let the matter end with estrangement;
let it not proceed to active animosity and hostility. It is very
unbecoming to engage in public war with a man who has been known as
one's friend. On two separate occasions Scipio thought it right to
withdraw his confidence from certain friends. In each case he kept his
dignity and self-command; he was grieved, but never bitter. Of course,
the best way to guard against such unfortunate occurrences is to take
the greatest care in forming friendships. All excellence is rare, and
that moral excellence which makes fit objects for friendship is as rare
as any.

On the other hand, it would be unreasonable and presumptuous in anyone
to expect to find a friend of a quality to which he himself can never
hope to attain, or to demand from his friend an indulgence which he
is not prepared himself to offer. Friendship was given us to be an
incentive to virtue, and not as an indulgence to vice or to mediocrity;
in order that, since a solitary virtue cannot scale the peaks, it may
do so with the loyal help of a comrade. A comradeship of this kind
includes within it all that men most desire.

Think nobly of friendship, and conduct yourselves wisely in it, for in
one way or another it enters into the life of every man. Even Timon of
Athens, whose one impulse was a brutal misanthropy, must needs seek a
confidant into whose mind he may instil his detestable venom. I have
heard, and I agree with it, that though a man should contemplate from
the heavens the universal beauty of creation, he would soon weary of it
without a companion for his admiration.

Of course, there are rubs in friendship which a sensible man will learn
to avoid, or to ignore, or to bear them cheerfully. Admonitions and
reproofs must have their part in true amity, and it is as difficult
to utter them tactfully as it is to receive them in good part.
Complaisance seems more propitious to friendship than are these naked
truths. But though truth may be painful, complaisance is more likely
in the long run to prove disastrous. It is no kindness to allow a
friend to rush headlong to ruin. Let your remonstrances be free from
bitterness and from insult; let your complaisance be affable, but never
servile. As for adulation, there are no words bad enough for it. Even
the populace have only contempt for the politician who flatters them.
Despise the insinuations of the sycophant, for what is more shameful
than to be made a fool of?

I tell you, sirs, that it is virtue that lasts; that begets real
friendships and maintains them. Lay, therefore, while you are young,
the foundations of a virtuous life.




WILLIAM COBBETT

Advice to Young Men

  William Cobbett, the celebrated English political writer, was
  born in March, 1762, at Farnham in Surrey. He took a dislike to
  rural occupations, and at an early age went to London, where
  he was employed for a few months as a copying clerk. This work
  was distasteful to him, and he enlisted in the army, and went
  with his regiment to Nova Scotia. On returning to England in
  1791, he obtained his discharge, married, and went to America.
  In Philadelphia he commenced his career as a political writer.
  Cobbett's "Advice to Young Men" was published in 1830. It has
  always been the most popular of his books, partly because of
  its subject, and partly because it illustrates so well the bold
  and forceful directness of his style. An intensely egotistical
  and confident man, Cobbett believed that his own strangely
  inconsistent life was a model for all men. Yet, contrary to what
  might have been expected, he was a delightful man in the domestic
  circle, and the story of his marriage--which has been narrated
  in his "Rural Rides"--is one of the romances of literary life.
  The original introduction to the "Advice" contained personal
  reference incredible in anyone except Cobbett. Said he, "Few will
  be disposed to question my fitness for the task. If such a man be
  not qualified to give advice, no man is qualified." And he went
  on to claim for himself "genius and something more." He certainly
  had a remarkable fund of commonsense, except when his subject was
  himself. Cobbett died June 18, 1835.


_I.--To a Youth_

You are arrived, let us suppose, at the age of from fourteen to nearly
twenty, and I here offer you my advice towards making you a happy man,
useful to all about you, and an honour to those from whom you sprang.
Start, I beseech you, with a conviction firmly fixed in your mind that
you have no right to live in this world without doing work of some sort
or other. To wish to live on the labour of others is to contemplate a
fraud.

Happiness ought to be your great object, and it is to be found only in
independence. Turn your back on what is called interest. Write it on
your heart that you will depend solely on your own merit and your own
exertions, for that which a man owes to favour or to partiality, that
same favour or partiality is constantly liable to take from him.

The great source of independence the French express in three words,
"_Vivre de peu_." "To live upon little" is the great security against
slavery; and this precept extends to dress and other things besides
food and drink. Extravagance in dress arises from the notion that all
the people in the street will be looking at you as you walk out; but
all the sensible people that happen to see you will think nothing at
all about you. Natural beauty of person always will and must have some
weight, even with men, and great weight with women; but this does not
want to be set off by expensive clothes.

A love of what is called "good eating and drinking," if very unamiable
in a grown-up person, is perfectly hateful in a youth. I have never
known such a man worthy of respect.

Next, as to amusements. Dancing is at once rational and healthful;
it is the natural amusement of young people, and none but the most
grovelling and hateful tyranny, or the most stupid and despicable
fanaticism, ever raised its voice against it. As to gaming, it is
always criminal, either in itself or in its tendency. The basis of it
is covetousness; a desire to take from others something for which you
have given, and intend to give, no equivalent.

Be careful in choosing your companions; and lay down as a rule never to
be departed from that no youth or man ought to be called your friend
who is addicted to indecent talk.

In your manners be neither boorish nor blunt, but even these are
preferable to simpering and crawling. Be obedient where obedience is
due; for it is no act of meanness to yield implicit and ready obedience
to those who have a right to demand it at your hands. None are so saucy
and disobedient as slaves; and, when you come to read history, you
will find that in proportion as nations have been free has been their
reverence for the laws.

Let me now turn to the things which you ought to do. And, first of
all, the husbanding of your time. Young people require more sleep than
those that are grown up, and the number of hours cannot well be, on an
average, less than eight. An hour in bed is better than an hours spent
over the fire in an idle gossip.

Money is said to be power; but superior sobriety, industry, and
activity are still a more certain source of power. Booklearning is not
only proper, but highly commendable; and portions of it are absolutely
necessary in every case of trade or profession. One of these portions
is distinct reading, plain and neat writing, and arithmetic. The
next thing is the grammar of your own language, for grammar is the
foundation of all literature. Excellence in your own calling is the
first thing to be aimed at. After this may come general knowledge.
Geography naturally follows grammar; and you should begin with that of
this kingdom. When you come to history, begin also with that of your
own country; and here it is my bounded duty to put you well on your
guard. The works of our historians are, as far as they relate to former
times, masses of lies unmatched by any others that the world has ever
seen.


_II.--To a Young Man_

To be poor and independent is very nearly an impossibility; though
poverty is, except where there is an actual want of food and raiment,
a thing much more imaginary than real. Resolve to set this false shame
of being poor at defiance. Nevertheless, men ought to take care of
their names, ought to use them prudently and sparingly, and to keep
their expenses always within the bounds of their income, be it what it
may.

One of the effectual means of doing this is to purchase with ready
money. Innumerable things are not bought at all with ready money which
would be bought in case of trust; it is so much easier to order a thing
than to pay for it. I believe that, generally speaking, you pay for the
same article a fourth part more in the case of trust than you do in the
case of ready money. The purchasing with ready money really means that
you have more money to purchase with.

A great evil arising from the desire not to be thought poor is the
destructive thing honoured by the name of "speculation," but which
ought to be called gambling. It is a purchasing of something to be sold
again with a great profit at a considerable hazard. Your life, while
you are thus engaged, is the life of a gamester: a life of general
gloom, enlivened now and then by a gleam of hope or of success.

In all situations of life avoid the trammels of the law. If you win
your suit and are poorer than you were before, what do you accomplish?
Better to put up with the loss of one pound than with two, with all the
loss of time and all the mortification and anxiety attending a law suit.

Unless your business or your profession be duly attended to there can
be no real pleasure in any other employment of a portion of your time.
Men, however, must have some leisure, some relaxation from business;
and in the choice of this relaxation much of your happiness will depend.

Where fields and gardens are at hand, they present the most rational
scenes for leisure. Nothing can be more stupid than sitting,
sotting over a pot and a glass, sending out smoke from the head, and
articulating, at intervals, nonsense about all sorts of things.

Another mode of spending the leisure time is that of books. To come at
the true history of a country you must read its laws; you must read
books treating of its usages and customs in former times; and you must
particularly inform yourselves as to prices of labour and of food. But
there is one thing always to be guarded against, and that is not to
admire and applaud anything you read merely because it is the fashion
to admire and applaud it. Read, consider well what you read, form your
own judgments, and stand by that judgment until fact or argument be
offered to convince you of your error.


_III.--To a Lover_

There are two descriptions of lovers on whom all advice would be
wasted, namely, those in whose minds passion so wholly overpowers
reason as to deprive the party of his sober senses, and those who love
according to the rules of arithmetic, or measure their matrimonial
expectations by the claim of the land-surveyor.

I address myself to the reader whom I suppose to be a real lover, but
not so smitten as to be bereft of reason. You should never forget that
marriage is a thing to last for life, and that, generally speaking, it
is to make life happy or miserable.

The things which you ought to desire in a wife are chastity, sobriety,
industry, frugality, cleanliness, knowledge of domestic affairs, good
temper and beauty.

Chastity, perfect modesty, in word, deed, and even thought, is so
essential that without it no female is fit to be a wife. If prudery
mean false modesty, it is to be despised; but if it mean modesty pushed
to the utmost extent, I confess that I like it. The very elements of
jealousy ought to be avoided, and the only safeguard is to begin well
and so render infidelity and jealousy next to impossible.

By sobriety I mean sobriety of conduct. When girls arrive at that
age which turns their thoughts towards the command of a house it
is time for them to cast away the levity of a child. Sobriety is a
title to trustworthiness, and that is a treasure to prize above all
others. But in order to possess this precious trustworthiness you must
exercise your reason in the choice of a partner. If she be vain, fond
of flattery, given to gadding about, coquettish, she will never be
trustworthy, and you will be unjust if you expect it at her hands. But
if you find in her that innate sobriety of which I have been speaking,
there requires on your part confidence and trust without any limit.

An ardent-minded young man may fear that sobriety of conduct in a young
woman argues a want of warmth; but my observation and experience tell
me that levity, not sobriety, is, ninety-nine times out of a hundred,
the companion of a want of ardent feeling.

There is no state in life in which industry in the wife is not
necessary to the happiness and prosperity of the family. If she be lazy
there will always be a heavy arrear of things unperformed, and this,
even among the wealthy, is a great curse. But who is to tell whether a
girl will make an industrious woman? There are certain outward signs,
which, if attended to with care, will serve as pretty sure guides.

If you find the tongue lazy you may be nearly certain that the hands
and feet are the same. The pronunciation of an industrious person is
generally quick, distinct, and firm. Another mark of industry is a
quick step and a tread showing that the foot comes down with a hearty
good will.

Early rising is another mark of industry. It is, I should imagine,
pretty difficult to keep love alive towards a woman who never sees the
dew, never beholds the rising sun.

Frugality. This means the contrary of extravagance. It does not mean
stinginess; it means an abstaining from all unnecessary expenditure.
The outward and vulgar signs of extravagance are all the hardware
which women put upon their persons. The girl who has not the sense to
perceive that her person is disfigured, and not beautified by parcels
of brass, tin, and other hardware stuck about her body, is too great a
fool to be trusted with the purse of any man.

Cleanliness is a capital ingredient. Occasional cleanliness is not the
thing that an English or American husband wants; he wants it always. A
sloven in one thing is a sloven in all things. Make up your mind to a
rope rather than to live with a slip-shod wife.

Knowledge of domestic affairs is so necessary in every wife that
the lover ought to have it continually in his eye. A wife must not
only know how things ought to be done, but how to do them. I cannot
form an idea of a more unfortunate being than a girl with a mere
boarding-school education and without a future to enable her to keep a
servant when married. Of what use are her accomplishments?

Good temper is a very difficult thing to ascertain beforehand--smiles
are so cheap. By "good temper" I do not mean easy temper--a serenity
which nothing disturbs is a mark of laziness. Sulkiness, querulousness,
cold indifference, pertinacity in having the last word, are bad things
in a young woman, but of all the faults of temper your melancholy
ladies are the worst. Most wives are at times misery-makers, but the
melancholy carry it on as a regular trade.

The great use of female beauty is that it naturally tends to keep the
husband in good humour with himself, to make him pleased with his
bargain.

As to constancy in lovers, even when marriage has been promised, and
that, too, in the most solemn manner, it is better for both parties
to break off than to be coupled together with the reluctant assent of
either.


_IV.--To a Husband_

It is as a husband that your conduct will have the greatest effect on
your happiness. All in a wife, beyond her own natural disposition and
education, is, nine times out of ten, the work of her husband.

First convince her of the necessity of moderation in expense; make her
clearly see the justice of beginning to act upon the presumption that
there are children coming. The great danger of all is beginning with a
servant. The wife is young, and why is she not to work as well as her
husband? If the wife be not able to do all the work to be done in the
house, she ought not to have been able to marry.

The next thing to be attended to is your demeanour towards a young
wife. The first frown that she receives from you is a dagger to her
heart. Let nothing put you out of humour with her.

Every husband who spends his leisure time in company other than that
of his wife and family tells her and them that he takes more delight
in other company than in theirs. Resolve from the very first never to
spend an hour from home unless business or some necessary and rational
purpose demand it. If you are called away your wife ought to be fully
apprised of the probable duration of the absence and of the time of
return. When we consider what a young woman gives up on her wedding
day, how can a just man think anything a trifle that affects her
happiness?

Though these considerations may demand from us the kindest possible
treatment of a wife, the husband is to expect dutiful deportment at
her hands. A husband under command is the most contemptible of God's
creatures. Am I recommending tyranny? Am I recommending disregard of
the wife's opinions and wishes? By no means. But the very nature of
things prescribes that there must be a head of every house, and an
undivided authority. The wife ought to be heard, and patiently heard;
she ought to be reasoned with, and, if possible, convinced; but if she
remain opposed to the husband's opinion, his will must be obeyed.

I now come to that great bane of families--jealousy. One thing every
husband can do in the way of prevention, and that is to give no
ground for it. Few characters are more despicable than that of a
jealous-headed husband, and that, not because he has grounds, but
because he has not grounds.

If to be happy in the married state requires these precautions, you may
ask: Is it not better to remain single? The cares and troubles of the
married life are many, but are those of the single life few? Without
wives men are poor, helpless mortals.

As to the expense, I firmly believe that a farmer married at
twenty-five, and having ten children during the first ten years, would
be able to save more money during these years than a bachelor of the
same age would be able to save, on the same farm, in a like space of
time. The bachelor has no one on whom he can in all cases rely. To me,
no being in this world appears so wretched as he.


_V.--To a Father_

It is yourself that you see in your children. They are the great and
unspeakable delight of your youth, the pride of your prime of life,
and the props of your old age. From the very beginning ensure in them,
if possible, an ardent love for their mother. Your first duty towards
them is resolutely to prevent their drawing the means of life from any
breast but hers. That is their own; it is their birthright.

The man who is to gain a living by his labour must be drawn away from
home; but this will not, if he be made of good stuff, prevent him from
doing his share of the duty due to his children. There ought to be no
toils, no watchings, no breakings of rest, imposed by this duty, of
which he ought not to perform his full share, and that, too, without
grudging. The working man, in whatever line, and whether in town or
country, who spends his day of rest away from his wife and children is
not worthy of the name of father.

The first thing in the rearing of children who have passed from the
baby state is, as to the body, plenty of good food; and, as to the
mind, constant good example in the parents. There is no other reason
for the people in the American states being generally so much taller
and stronger than the people in England are, but that, from their
birth, they have an abundance of good food; not only of food, but of
rich food. Nor is this, in any point of view, an unimportant matter,
for a tall man is worth more than a short man. Good food, and plenty of
it, is not more necessary to the forming of a stout and able body than
to the forming of an active and enterprising spirit. Children should
eat often, and as much as they like at a time. They will never take, of
plain food, more than it is good for them to take.

The next thing after good and plentiful and plain food is good air.
Besides sweet air, children want exercise. Even when they are babies in
arms they want tossing and pulling about, and talking and singing to.
They will, when they begin, take, if you let them alone, just as much
exercise as nature bids them, and no more.

I am of opinion that it is injurious to the mind to press book-learning
upon a child at an early age. I must impress my opinion upon every
father that his children's happiness ought to be his first object;
that book-learning, if it tend to militate against this, ought to be
disregarded. A man may read books for ever and be an ignorant creature
at last, and even the more ignorant for his reading.

And with regard to young women, everlasting book-reading is absolutely
a vice. When they once get into the habit they neglect all other
matters, and, in some cases, even their very dress. Attending to the
affairs of the house--to the washing, the baking, the brewing, the
cooking of victuals, the management of the poultry and the garden,
these are their proper occupations.


_VI.--To the Citizen_

Having now given my advice to the youth, the man, the lover, the
husband, and the father, I shall tender it to the citizen. To act well
our part as citizens we ought clearly to understand what our rights
are; for on our enjoyment of these depend our duties, rights going
before duties, as value received goes before payments. The great right
of all is the right of taking a part in the making of the laws by which
we are governed.

It is the duty of every man to defend his country against an enemy, a
duty imposed by the law of nature as well as by that of civil society.
Yet how are you to maintain that this is the duty of every man if you
deny to some men the enjoyment of a share in making the laws? The poor
man has a body and a soul as well as the rich man; like the latter, he
has parents, wife, and children; a bullet or a sword is as deadly to
him as to the rich man; yet, notwithstanding this equality, he is to
risk all, and, if he escape, he is still to be denied an equality of
rights! Why are the poor to risk their lives? To uphold the laws and
to protect property--property of which they are said to possess none?
What! compel men to come forth and risk their lives for the protection
of property, and then in the same breath tell them that they are not
allowed to share in the making of the laws, because, and only because,
they have no property!

Here, young man of sense and of spirit, here is the point on which you
are to take your stand. There are always men enough to plead the cause
of the rich, and to echo the woes of the fallen great; but be it your
part to show compassion for those who labour, and to maintain their
rights.

If the right to have a share in making the laws were merely a feather,
if it were a fanciful thing, if it were only a speculative theory, if
it were but an abstract principle, it might be considered as of little
importance. But it is none of these; it is a practical matter. Who lets
another man put his hand into his purse when he pleases? It is the
first duty of every man to do all in his power to maintain this right
of self-government where it exists, and to restore it where it has been
lost. Men are in such a case labouring, not for the present day only,
but for ages to come. If life should not allow them time to see their
endeavours crowned, their children will see it.




DANIEL DEFOE

A Journal of the Plague Year

  "A Journal of the Plague Year" appeared in 1722. In its second
  edition it received the title of "A History of the Plague." This
  book was suggested by the public anxiety caused by a fearful
  visitation of the plague at Marseilles in the two preceding
  years. As an account of the epidemic in London, it has all the
  vividness of Defoe's fiction, while it is acknowledged to be
  historically accurate. (Defoe biography, see Vol. III, p. 26.)


_I.--A Stricken City_

It was about the beginning of September, 1664, that I, among the rest
of my neighbours, heard that the plague was returned again in Holland.
We had no such thing as printed newspapers in those days to spread
rumours and reports of things; but such things as these were gathered
from the letters of merchants, and from them were handed about by word
of mouth only. In December, two Frenchmen died of the plague in Long
Acre, or, rather, at the upper end of Drury Lane. The secretaries
of state got knowledge of it, and two physicians and a surgeon were
ordered to go to the house and make inspection. This they did, and,
finding evident tokens of the sickness upon both the bodies, they gave
their opinions publicly, that they died of the plague; whereupon it was
given in to the parish clerk, and he also returned them to the Hall;
and it was printed in the weekly bill of mortality in the usual manner,
thus:

    Plague, 2; Parishes infected, 1.

The distemper spread slowly, and in the beginning of May, the city
being healthy, we began to hope that as the infection was chiefly among
the people at the other end of the town, it might go no further. We
continued in these hopes for a few days, but it was only for a few,
for the people were no more to be deceived thus; they searched the
houses, and found that the plague was really spread every way, and that
many died of it every day; and accordingly, in the weekly bill for
the next week, the thing began to show itself. There was, indeed, but
fourteen set down of the plague, but this was all knavery and collusion.

Now the weather set in hot, and from the first week in June the
infection spread in a dreadful manner, and the bills rose high. Yet all
that could conceal their distempers did it to prevent their neighbours
shunning them, and also to prevent authority shutting up their houses.

I lived without Aldgate, midway between Aldgate church and Whitechapel
Bars, and our neighbourhood continued very easy. But at the other end
of the town their consternation was very great, and the richer sort
of people, especially the nobility and gentry, from the west part of
the city, thronged out of town with their families and servants. In
Whitechapel, where I lived, nothing was to be seen but waggons and
carts, with goods, women, servants, children, etc., all hurrying away.
This was a very terrible and melancholy thing to see, and it filled me
with very serious thoughts of the misery that was coming upon the city.

I now began to consider seriously how I should dispose of myself,
whether I should resolve to stay in London, or shut up my house and
flee. I had two important things before me: the carrying on of my
business and shop, and the preservation of my life in so dismal a
calamity. My trade was a saddler, and though a single man, I had a
family of servants and a house and warehouses filled with goods, and to
leave them all without any overseer had been to hazard the loss of all
I had in the world.

I had resolved to go; but, one way or other, I always found that to
appoint to go away was always crossed by some accident or other, so as
to disappoint and put it off again; and I advise every person, in such
a case, to keep his eye upon the particular providences which occur
at that time, and take them as intimations from Heaven of what is his
unquestioned duty to do in such a case. Add to this, that, turning over
the Bible which lay before me, I cried out, "Well, I know not what
to do; Lord, direct me!" and at that juncture, casting my eye down,
I read: "Thou shalt not be afraid for the pestilence that walketh in
darkness.... A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy
right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee." I scarce need tell the
reader that from that moment I resolved that I would stay in the town,
casting myself entirely upon the protection of the Almighty.

The court removed in the month of June, and went to Oxford, where it
pleased God to preserve them; for which I cannot say they showed any
great token of thankfulness, and hardly anything of reformation, though
they did not want being told that their crying voices might, without
breach of charity, have gone far in bringing that terrible judgment
upon the whole nation.

A blazing star or comet had appeared for several months before the
plague, and there had been universal melancholy apprehensions of some
dreadful calamity. The people were at this time more addicted to
prophecies, dreams, and old wives' fables, than ever they were before
or since. Some ran about the streets with oral predictions, one crying,
"Yet forty days, and London shall be destroyed!" Another poor naked
creature cried, "Oh, the great and dreadful God!" repeating these words
continually, with voice and countenance full of horror, and a swift
pace, and nobody could ever find him to stop. Some saw a flaming sword
in a hand coming out of a cloud; others, hearses and coffins in the
air; others, heaps of dead bodies unburied. But those who were really
serious and religious applied themselves in a truly Christian manner to
the proper work of repentance and humiliation. Many consciences were
awakened, many hard hearts melted into tears. People might be heard in
the streets as we passed along, calling upon God for mercy, and saying,
"I have been a thief," or "a murderer," and the like; and none dared
stop to make the least inquiry into such things, or to comfort the poor
creatures that thus cried out. The face of London was now strangely
altered; it was all in tears; the shrieks of women and children at the
windows and doors, where their dearest relations were dead, were enough
to pierce the stoutest heart.

About June, the lord mayor and aldermen began more particularly to
concern themselves for the regulation of the city, by the shutting up
of houses. Examiners were appointed in every parish to order the house
to be shut up wherever any person sick of the infection was found. A
night watchman and a day watchman were appointed to each infected house
to prevent any person from coming out or going into the same. Women
searchers were appointed in each parish to examine the bodies of such
as were dead, to see if they had died of the infection, and over these
were appointed physicians and chirurgeons. Other orders were made with
regard to giving notice of sickness, sequestration of the sick, airing
the goods and bedding of the infected, burial of the dead, cleansing
of the streets, forbidding wandering beggars, loose persons, and idle
assemblages, and the like. One of these orders was--"That every house
visited be marked with a red cross of a foot long, in the middle of the
door, with these words, 'LORD HAVE MERCY UPON US,' to be set close over
the same cross." Many got out of their houses by stratagem after they
were shut up, and thus spread the plague; in one place they blowed up
their watchman with gunpowder and burnt the poor fellow dreadfully, and
while he made hideous cries, the whole family got out at the windows;
others got out by bribing the watchman, and I have seen three watchmen
publicly whipped through the streets for suffering people to go out.


_II.--How the Dead Were Buried_

I went all the first part of the time freely about the streets, and
when they dug the great pit in the churchyard of Aldgate I could not
resist going to see it. A terrible pit it was, forty feet long, about
sixteen wide, and in one part they dug it to near twenty feet deep,
until they could go no deeper for the water. It was filled in just two
weeks, when they had thrown into it 1,114 bodies from our own parish.

I got admittance into the churchyard by the sexton, who at first
refused me, but at last said: "Name of God, go in; depend upon it,
'twill be a sermon to you, it may be the best that ever you heard. It
is a speaking sight," says he; and with that he opened the door and
said, "Go, if you will." I stood wavering for a good while, but just at
that interval I saw two links come over from the end of the Minories,
and heard the bellman, and then appeared a dead-cart coming over the
streets, so I went in.

The scene was awful and full of terror. The cart had in it sixteen or
seventeen bodies; some were wrapped in sheets or rugs, some little
other than naked, or so loose that what covering they had fell from
them in the shooting out of the cart, and they fell quite naked among
the rest. But the matter was not much to them, seeing they were all
dead, and were to be huddled together into the common grave of mankind,
as we may call it; for here was no difference made, but poor and rich
went together. The cart was turned round, and the bodies shot into the
pit promiscuously.

There was following the cart a poor unhappy gentleman who fell down in
a swoon when the bodies were shot into the pit. The buriers ran to him
and took him up, and after he had come to himself, they led him away to
the Pye tavern, over against the end of Houndsditch. His case lay so
heavy on my mind that after I had gone home I must go out again into
the street and go to the Pye tavern, to inquire what became of him.

It was by this time one in the morning, and yet the poor gentleman was
there. The people of the house were civil and obliging, but there was a
dreadful set of fellows that used their house, and who, in the middle
of all this horror, met there every night, and behaved with revelling
and roaring extravagances, so that the master and mistress of the
house were terrified at them. They sat in a room next the street, and
as often as the dead-cart came along, they would open the windows and
make impudent mocks and jeers at the sad lamentations of the people,
especially if they heard the poor people call upon God to have mercy
upon them.

They were at this vile work when I came to the house, ridiculing the
unfortunate man, and his sorrow for his wife and children, taunting him
with want of courage to leap into the pit and go to Heaven with them,
and adding profane and blasphemous expressions.

I gently reproved them, being not unknown to two of them. But I cannot
call to mind the abominable raillery which they returned to me, making
a jest of my calling the plague the Hand of God. They continued this
wretched course three or four days; but they were, every one of them,
carried into the great pit before it was quite filled up.

In my walks I had daily many dismal scenes before my eyes, as of
persons falling dead in the streets, terrible shrieks and screechings
of women, and the like. Passing through Tokenhouse Yard, in Lothbury,
of a sudden a casement violently opened just over my head, and a woman
gave three frightful screeches, and then cried: "Oh Death! Death!
Death!" in a most inimitable tone, which struck me with horror and a
chillness in my very blood. There was nobody to be seen in the whole
street, neither did any other window open; for people had no curiosity
now, nor could anybody help another. I went on into Bell Alley.

Just in Bell Alley, at the right hand of the passage, there was a
more terrible cry than that, and I could hear women and children run
screaming about the rooms distracted. A garret window opened, and
somebody from a window on the other side of the alley called and
asked, "What is the matter?" upon which, from the first window it was
answered: "O Lord, my old master has hanged himself!" The other asked
again: "Is he quite dead?" And the first answered, "Ay, ay, quite
dead--quite dead and cold."

It is scarce credible what dreadful things happened every day, people
in the rage of the distemper, or in the torment of their swellings,
which was indeed intolerable, oftentimes laying violent hands on
themselves, throwing themselves out at their windows, etc.; mothers
murdering their own children in their lunacy; some dying of mere
fright, without any infection; others frightened into despair, idiocy,
or madness.

There were a great many robberies and wicked practices committed even
in this dreadful time. The power of avarice was so strong in some that
they would run any hazard to steal and to plunder; and in houses where
all the inhabitants had died and been carried out, they would break in
without regard to the danger of infection, and take even the bedclothes.


_III.--Universal Desolation_

For about a month together, I believe there did not die less than 1,500
or 1,700 a day, one day with another; and in the beginning of September
good people began to think that God was resolved to make a full end of
the people in this miserable city. Whole families, and, indeed, whole
streets of families were swept away together, and the infection was so
increased that at length they shut up no houses at all. People gave
themselves up to their fears, and thought that nothing was to be hoped
for but an universal desolation. It was even in the height of this
despair that it pleased God to stay His hand, and to slacken the fury
of the contagion.

When the people despaired of life and abandoned themselves, it had a
very strange effect for three or four weeks; it made them bold and
venturous; they were no more shy of one another, nor restrained within
doors, but went anywhere and everywhere, and ran desperately into
any company. It brought them to crowd into the churches; looking on
themselves as all so many dead corpses, they behaved as if their lives
were of no consequence, compared to the work which they came about
there.

The conduct of the lord mayor and magistrates was all the time
admirable, so that bread was always to be had in plenty, and cheap
as usual; provisions were never wanting in the markets; the streets
were kept free from all manner of frightful objects--dead bodies, or
anything unpleasant; and for a time fires were kept burning in the
streets to cleanse the air of infection.

Many remedies were tried; but it is my opinion, and I must leave it as
a prescription, that the best physic against the plague is to run away
from it. I know people encourage themselves by saying, "God is able to
keep us in the midst of danger," and this kept thousands in the town,
whose carcasses went into the great pits by cart-loads. Yet of the
pious ladies who went about distributing alms to the poor, and visiting
infected families, though I will not undertake to say that none of
those charitable people were suffered to fall under the calamity, yet I
may say this, that I never knew any of them to fall under it.

Such is the precipitant disposition of our people, that no sooner had
they observed that the distemper was not so catching as formerly, and
that if it was catched it was not so mortal, and that abundance of
people who really fell sick recovered again daily, than they made no
more of the plague than of an ordinary fever, nor indeed so much. They
went into the very chambers where others lay sick. This rash conduct
cost a great many their lives, who had been preserved all through the
heat of the infection, and the bills of mortality increased again four
hundred in the first week of November.

But it pleased God, by the continuing of wintry weather, so to restore
the health of the city that by February following we reckoned the
distemper quite ceased. The time was not far off when the city was to
be purged with fire, for within nine months more I saw it all lying in
ashes.

I shall conclude the account of this calamitous year with a stanza of
my own:

    A dreadful plague in London was
      In the year sixty-five,
    Which swept an hundred thousand souls
      Away; yet I alive!




DEMOSTHENES

The Philippics

  Demosthenes, by universal consensus of opinion the greatest
  orator the world has known, was born at Athens 385 B.C. and
  died 322 B.C. His birth took place just nineteen years after
  the conclusion of the Peloponnesian War. Losing his father when
  he was yet a child, his wealth was frittered away by three
  faithless guardians, whom he prosecuted when he came of age.
  This dispute, and some other struggles, led him into public
  life, and by indomitable perseverance he overcame the difficulty
  constituted by certain physical disqualifications. Identifying
  himself for life entirely with the interests of Athens, he became
  the foremost administrator in the state, as well as its most
  eloquent orator. His stainless character, his matchless powers
  of advocacy, his fervent patriotism, and his fine diplomacy,
  render him altogether one of the noblest figures of antiquity.
  His fame rests mainly on "The Philippics"; those magnificent
  orations delivered during a series of several years against the
  aggressions of Philip of Macedon; though the three "Olynthiacs,"
  and the oration "De Coronâ," and several other speeches are
  monumental of the genius of Demosthenes, more especially the "De
  Coronâ." He continued to resist the Macedonian domination during
  the career of Alexander the Great, and was exiled, dying, it is
  supposed, by poison administered by himself, at Calauria. (Cf.
  also p. 273 of this volume.) This epitome has been prepared from
  the original Greek.


_I.--"Men of Athens, Arouse Yourselves!"_

The subject under discussion on this occasion, men of Athens, is not
new, and there would be no need to speak further on it if other orators
deliberated wisely. First, I advise you not to regard the present
aspect of affairs, miserable though it truly is, as entirely hopeless.
For the primary cause of the failure is your own mismanagement. If any
consider it difficult to overcome Philip because of the power that he
has attained, and because of our disastrous loss of many fortresses,
they should remember how much he has gained by achieving alliances.

If, now, you will emulate his policy, if every citizen will devote
himself assiduously to the service of his country, you will assuredly
recover all that has been lost, and punish Philip. For he has his
enemies, even among his pretended friends. All dread him because your
inertia has prevented you from providing any refuge for them. Hence the
height of arrogance which he now displays and the constantly expanding
area of his conquests.

When, men of Athens, will you realise that your attitude is the cause
of this situation? For you idle about, indulging in gossip over
circumstances, instead of grappling with the actualities. Were this
antagonist to pass away, another enemy like him would speedily be
produced by your policy, for Philip is what he is not so much through
his own prowess as through your own indifference.

As to the plan of action to be initiated, I say that we must inaugurate
it by providing fifty triremes, also the cavalry and transports and
boats needed for the fleet. Thus we should be fully prepared to cope
with the sudden excursions of Philip to Thermopylæ or any other point.
Besides this naval force, you should equip an army of 2,000 foot
soldiers, of whom 500 should be Athenians, the remainder mercenaries,
together with 250 cavalry, including 50 Athenians. Lastly, we should
have an auxiliary naval contingent of ten swift galleys.

We are now conducting affairs farcically. For we act neither as if
we were at peace, nor as if we had entered on a war. You enlist your
soldiers not for warfare, but for religious pageants, and for parades
and processions in the market-place. We must consolidate our resources,
embody permanent forces, not temporary levies hastily enlisted, and
we must secure winter quarters for our troops in those islands which
possess harbours and granaries for the corn.

No longer, men of Athens, must you continue the mere discussion of
measures without ever executing any of your projects. Remember that
Philip sustains his power by drawing on the resources of your own
allies.

But by adopting my plan you will at one and the same time deprive him
of his chief sources of supply, and place yourselves out of the reach
of danger. The policy he has hitherto pursued will be effectually
thwarted. No longer will he be able to capture your citizens, as he did
by attacking Lemnos and Imbros, or to seize your Paralus, as he did on
his descent at Marathon.

But, men of Athens, you spend far larger sums of money on the splendid
Panathenaic and Dionysian festivals than on your naval and military
armaments. Moreover, those festivals are always punctually celebrated,
while your preparations for war are always behindhand. Then, when a
critical juncture arrives, we find our forces are totally inadequate to
the emergency.

Having larger resources than any other state, you, Athenians, have
never adequately availed yourselves of them. You never anticipate the
movements of Philip, but simply drift after him, sending forces to
Thermopylæ if you hear he is there, or to any other quarter where he
may happen to be. Such policy might formerly be excused, but now it
is as disgraceful as it is intolerable. Are we to wait for Philip's
aggressiveness to cease? It never will do so unless we resist it. Shall
we not assume the offensive and descend on his coast with some of our
forces?

Nothing will result from mere oratory and from mutual recrimination
among ourselves. My own conviction is that Philip is encouraged by our
inertia, and that he is carried away by his own successes, but that he
has no fixed plan of action that can be guessed by foolish chatterers.
Men of Athens, let us for the future abandon such an attitude, and let
us bear in mind that we must depend not on the help of others, but on
ourselves alone. Unless we go to attack Philip where he is, Philip will
come to attack us where we are.


_II.--Beware the Guile of Philip_

Nothing, men of Athens, is done as a sequel to the speeches which
are delivered and approved concerning the outrageous proceedings of
Philip. You are earnest in discussion; he is earnest in action. If we
are to be complacently content because we employ the better arguments,
well and good; but if we are successfully to resist this formidable
and increasing power, we must be prepared to entertain advice that is
salutary, however unpalatable, rather than counsel which is easy and
pleasant.

If you give me any credit for clear perception, I beg you to attend
to what I plead. After subduing Thermopylæ and the Phocians, Philip
quickly apprehended that you could not be induced by any selfish
considerations to abandon other Greek states to him. The Thebans,
Messenians, and Argives he lured by bribes. But he knew how, in
the past, your predecessors scorned the overtures of his ancestor,
Alexander of Macedon, sent by Mardonius the Persian to induce the
Athenians to betray the rest of the Greeks. It was not so with the
Argives and the Thebans, and thus Philip calculates that their
successors will care nothing for the interests of the Greeks generally.
So he favours them, but not you.

Everything demonstrates Philip's animosity against Athens. He is
instinctively aware that you are conscious of his plots against
you, and ascribes to you a feeling of hatred against him. Eager to
be beforehand with us, he continues to negotiate with Thebans and
Peloponnesians, assuming that they may be beguiled with ease.

I call to mind how I addressed the Messenians and the Argives,
reminding them how Philip had dishonourably given certain of their
territories to the Olynthians. Would the Olynthians then have listened
to any disparagements of Philip? Assuredly not. Yet they were soon
shamefully betrayed and cheated by him. It is unsafe for commonwealths
to place confidence in despots. In like manner were the Thessalians
deceived when he had ejected their tyrants and had restored to
them Nicasa and Magnesia, for he instituted the new tyranny of the
Decemvirate. Philip is equally ready with gifts and promises on the one
hand, and with fraud and deceit on the other.

"By Jupiter," said I to those auditors, "the only infallible defence of
democracies against despots is the absolute refusal of all confidence
in them. Always to mistrust them is the only safeguard. What is it that
you seek to secure? Liberty? Then do you not perceive that the very
titles worn by Philip prove him to be adverse to this? For every king
and tyrant is an enemy to freedom and an opponent to laws."

But though my speeches and those of other emissaries were received
with vociferous applause, all the same those who thus manifested
profound approbation will never be able to resist the blandishments and
overtures of Philip. It may well be so with those other Greeks. But
you, O Athenians, surely should understand your own interests better.
For otherwise irreparable disaster must ensue.

In justice, men of Athens, you should summon the men who communicated
to you the promises which induced you to consent to peace. Their
statements misled us; otherwise, neither would I have gone as
ambassador, nor would you have ceased hostilities. Also, you should
call those who, after my return from my second embassy, contradicted my
report. I then protested against the abandonment of Thermopylæ and of
the Phocians.

They ridiculed me as a water-drinker, and they persuaded you that
Philip would cede to you Oropus and Eubœa in exchange for Amphipolis,
and also that he would humble the Thebans and at his own charges cut
through the Chersonese. Your anger will be excited in due time when
you realise what you have hitherto disregarded, namely, that these
projects on the part of Philip are devised against Athens.

Though all know it only too well, let me remind you who it was,
even Æschines himself, who induced you by his persuasion to abandon
Thermopylæ and Phocis. By possessing control over these, Philip now
commands also the road to Attica and Peloponnesus.

Hence the present situation is this, that you must now consider,
not distant affairs, but the means of defending your homes and of
conducting a war in Attica, that war having become inevitable through
those events, grievous though it will be to every citizen when it
begins. May the gods grant that the worst fears be not fully confirmed!


_III.--Athens Must Head the War_

Various circumstances, men of Athens, have reduced our affairs to the
worst possible state, this lamentable crisis being due mainly to the
specious orators who seek rather to please you than wisely to guide
you. Flattery has generated perilous complacency, and now the position
is one of extreme danger. I am willing either to preserve silence,
or to speak frankly, according to your disposition. Yet all may be
repaired if you awaken to your duty, for Philip has not conquered you;
you have simply made no real effort against him.

Strange to say, while Philip is actually seizing cities and
appropriating various portions of our territory, some among us affirm
that there is really no war. Thus, caution is needed in speech, for
those who suggest defensive measures may afterwards be indicted for
causing hostilities. Now, let those who maintain that we are at peace
propose a resolution for suitable plans. But if you are invaded by an
armed aggressor, who pretends to be at peace with you, what can you do
but initiate measures of defence?

Both sides may profess to be at peace, and I do not demur; but it
is madness to style that a condition of peace which allows Philip
to subjugate all other states and then to assail you last of all.
His method of proceeding is to prepare to attack you, while securing
immunity from the danger of being attacked by you.

If we wait for him to declare war, we wait in vain. For he will treat
us as he did the Olynthians and the Phocians. Professing to be their
ally, he appropriated territories belonging to them. Do you imagine
he would declare war against you before commencing operations of
encroachment? Never, so long as he knows that you are willing to be
deceived.

By a series of operations he has been infringing the peace: by his
attempt to seize Megara, by his intervention in Eubœa, by his excursion
into Thrace. I reckon that the virtual beginnings of hostilities
must be dated from the day that he completed the subjugation of the
Thracians. From your other orators I differ in deeming any discussion
irrelevant respecting the Chersonese or Byzantium. Aid these, indeed;
but let the safety of all Greece alike be the subject of your
deliberations.

What I would emphasise is that to Philip have been conceded liberties
of encroachment and aggression, by you first of all, such as in former
days were always contested by war. He has attacked and enslaved city
after city of the Greeks. You Athenians were for seventy-three years
the supreme leaders in Hellas, as were the Spartans for twenty-nine
years. Then after the battle of Leuctra the Thebans acquired paramount
influence. But neither you nor these others ever arrogated the right to
act according to your pleasure.

If you appeared to act superciliously towards any state, all the other
states sided with that one which was aggrieved. Yet all the errors
committed by our predecessors and by those of the Spartans during the
whole of that century were trivial compared with the wrongs perpetrated
by Philip during these thirteen years. Cruel has been his destruction
of Olynthus, of Methone, of Apollonia, and of thirty-two cities on the
borders of Thrace, and also the extermination of the Phocians. And now
he domineers ruthlessly over Thessaly and Eubœa. Yet all we Greeks of
various nationalities are in so abjectly miserable a condition that,
instead of arranging embassies and declaring our indignation, we
entrench ourselves in isolation in our several cities.

It must be reflected that when wrongs were inflicted by other states,
by us or the Spartans, these faults were at any rate committed by
genuine sons of Greece. How much more hateful is the offence when
perpetrated against a household by a slave or an alien than by a son or
other member of the family! But Philip is not only no son of Hellas; he
is not even a reputable barbarian, but only a vile fellow of Macedon,
a country from which formerly even a respectable slave could not be
purchased!

What is lacking to his unspeakable arrogance? Does he not assemble the
Pythian games, command Thermopylæ, garrison the passes, secure prior
access to the oracle at Delphi, and dictate the form of government for
Thessaly? All this the Greeks look upon with toleration; they seem
to regard it as they would some tempest, each hoping it will fall on
someone else. We are all passive and despondent, mutually distrusting
each other instead of the common foe.

How different the noble spirit of former days! How different that old
passion for liberty which is now superseded by the love of servitude!
Then corruption was so deeply detested that there was no pardon for
the guilt of bribery. Now venality is laughed at and bribery goes
unpunished. In ships, men, equipment, and revenues our resources are
larger than ever before, but corruption neutralises them all.

But preparations for war are not sufficient. You must not only be ready
to encounter the foes without, but must punish those who among you are
the creatures of Philip, like those who caused the ruin of Olynthus by
betraying the cavalry and by securing the banishment of Apollonides.
Similar treachery brought about the downfall of other cities. The same
fate may befall us. What, then, must be done?

When we have done all that is needful for our own defence, let us next
send our emissaries to all the other states with the intelligence
that we are ready. If you imagine that others will save Greece while
you avoid the conflict, you cherish a fatal delusion. This enterprise
devolves on you; you inherit it from your ancestors.


_IV.--Exterminate the Traitors!_

Men of Athens, your chief misfortune is that, though for the passing
moment you heed important news, you speedily scatter and forget what
you have just heard. You have become fully acquainted with the doings
of Philip, and you well know how great is his ambition; and yet, so
profound has been our indifference that we have earned the contempt
of several other states, which now prefer to undertake their defence
separately rather than in alliance with us.

You must become more deeply convinced than you have been hitherto that
our destruction is the supreme anxiety of Philip. The special object of
his hatred is your democratic constitution. Our mode of procedure is a
mockery, for we are always behind in the execution of our schemes. You
must form a permanent army with a regular organisation, and with funds
sufficient for its maintenance.

Most of all, money is needed to meet coming requirements. There was a
time when money was forthcoming and everything necessary was performed.
Why do we now decline to do our duty? In a time of peril to the
commonwealth the affluent should freely contribute of their possessions
for the welfare of the country; but each class has its obligations to
the state and should observe them.

Many and inveterate are the causes of our present difficulties. You, O
Athenians, have surrendered the august position which your predecessors
bequeathed you, and have indolently permitted a stranger to usurp it.
The present crisis involves peril for all the states, but to Athens
most of all; and that not so much on account of Philip's schemes of
conquest, as of your neglect.

How is it, Athenians, that none affirm concerning Philip that he is
guilty of aggression, even while he is seizing cities, while those
who advise resistance are indicated as inciting to war? The reason is
that those who have been corrupted believe that if you do resist him
you will overcome him, and they can no longer secure the reward of
treachery.

Remember what you have at stake. Should you fall under the dominion
of Philip, he will show you no pity, for his desire is not merely to
subdue Athens, but to destroy it. The struggle will be to the death;
therefore, those who would sell the country to him you must exterminate
without scruple. This is the only city where such treacherous citizens
can dare to speak in his favour. Only here may a man safely accept a
bribe and openly address the people.




RALPH WALDO EMERSON

English Traits

  In 1847 Emerson (see Vol. XIII, p. 339) made his second visit to
  England, this time on a lecturing tour. An outcome of the visit
  was "English Traits," which was first published in 1856. "I leave
  England," he wrote on his return home, "with an increased respect
  for the Englishman. His stuff or substance seems to be the best
  in the world." "English Traits" deals with a series of definite
  subjects which do not admit of much philosophic digression, and
  there is, therefore, an absence of the flashes of spiritual and
  poetic insight which gave Emerson his charm.


_I.--The Anchorage of Britain_

I did not go very willingly to England. I am not a good traveller, nor
have I found that long journeys yield a fair share of reasonable hours.
I find a sea-life an acquired taste, like that for tomatoes and olives.
The sea is masculine, the type of active strength. Look what egg-shells
are drifting all over it, each one filled with men in ecstasies of
terror alternating with cockney conceit, as it is rough or smooth. But
to the geologist the sea is the only firmament; it is the land that is
in perpetual flux and change. It has been said that the King of England
would consult his dignity by giving audience to foreign ambassadors in
the cabin of a man-of-war; and I think the white path of an Atlantic
ship is the right avenue to the palace-front of this seafaring people.

England is a garden. Under an ash-coloured sky, the fields have been
combed and rolled till they appear to have been finished with a pencil
instead of a plough. Rivers, hills, valleys, the sea itself, feel the
hand of a master. The problem of the traveller landing in Liverpool
is, Why England is England? What are the elements of that power which
the English hold over other nations? If there be one test of national
genius universally accepted, it is success; and if there be one
successful country in the universe that country is England.

The culture of the day, the thoughts and aims of men, are English
thoughts and aims. A nation considerable for a thousand years has in
the last centuries obtained the ascendant, and stamped the knowledge,
activity, and power of mankind with its impress.

The territory has a singular perfection. Neither hot nor cold, there is
no hour in the whole year when one cannot work. The only drawback to
industrial conveniency is the darkness of the sky. The night and day
are too nearly of a colour.

England resembles a ship in shape, and, if it were one, its best
admiral could not have anchored it in a more judicious or effective
position. The shop-keeping nation, to use a shop word, has a good
stand. It is anchored at the side of Europe, and right in the heart of
the modern world.

In variety of surface Britain is a miniature of Europe, as if Nature
had given it an artificial completeness. It is as if Nature had held
counsel with herself and said: "My Romans are gone. To build my new
empire I will choose a rude race, all masculine, with brutish strength.
Sharp and temperate northern breezes shall blow to keep them alive
and alert. The sea shall disjoin the people from others and knit them
by a fierce nationality. Long time will I keep them on their feet, by
poverty, border-wars, seafaring, sea-risks, and stimulus of gain." A
singular coincidence to this geographic centrality is the spiritual
centrality which Emanuel Swedenborg ascribes to the people: "The
English nation are in the centre of all Christians, because they have
an interior intellectual light. This light they derive from the liberty
of speaking and writing, and thereby of thinking."


_II.--Racial Characteristics_

The British Empire is reckoned to contain a fifth of the population
of the globe; but what makes the British census proper important is
the quality of the units that compose it. They are free, forcible men
in a country where life has reached the greatest value. They have
sound bodies and supreme endurance in war and in labour. They have
assimilating force, since they are imitated by their foreign subjects;
and they are still aggressive and propagandist, enlarging the dominion
of their arts and liberty.

The English composite character betrays a mixed origin. Everything
English is a fusion of distant and antagonistic elements. The language
is mixed; the currents of thought are counter; contemplation and
practical skill; active intellect and dead conservatism; world-wide
enterprise and devoted use and wont; a country of extremes--nothing in
it can be praised without damning exceptions, and nothing denounced
without salvos of cordial praise.

The sources from which tradition derives its stock are mainly three:
First, the Celtic--a people of hidden and precarious genius; second,
the Germans, a people about whom, in the old empire, the rumour ran
there was never any that meddled with them that repented it not; and,
third, the Norsemen and the children out of France. Twenty thousand
thieves landed at Hastings. These founders of the House of Lords were
greedy and ferocious dragoons, sons of greedy and ferocious pirates.
Such, however, is the illusion of antiquity and wealth that decent and
dignified men now existing actually boast their descent from these
filthy thieves.

As soon as this land, thus geographically posted, got a hardy people
into it, they could not help becoming the sailors and factors of the
world. The English, at the present day, have great vigour of body.
They are round, ruddy, and handsome, with a tendency to stout and
powerful frames. It is the fault of their forms that they grow stocky,
but in all ages they are a handsome race, and please by an expression
blending good nature, valour, refinement, and an uncorrupt youth in the
face of manhood.

The English are rather manly than warlike. They delight in the
antagonism which combines in one person the extremes of courage and
tenderness. Nelson, dying at Trafalgar, says, "Kiss me, Hardy," and
turns to sleep. Even for their highwaymen this virtue is claimed, and
Robin Hood is the gentlest thief. But they know where their war-dogs
lie, and Cromwell, Blake, Marlborough, Nelson, and Wellington are not
to be trifled with.

They have vigorous health and last well into middle and old age. They
have more constitutional energy than any other people. They box,
run, shoot, ride, row, and sail from Pole to Pole. They are the most
voracious people of prey that have ever existed, and they have written
the game-books of all countries.

These Saxons are the hands of mankind--the world's wealth-makers. They
have that temperament which resists every means employed to make its
possessor subservient to others. The English game is main force to main
force, the planting of foot to foot, fair play and an open field--a
rough tug without trick or dodging till one or both comes to pieces.
They hate craft and subtlety; and when they have pounded each other to
a poultice they will shake hands and be friends for the remainder of
their lives.

Their realistic logic of coupling means to ends has given them the
leadership of the modern world. Montesquieu said: "No people have true
commonsense but those who are born in England." This commonsense is
a perception of laws that cannot be stated, or that are learned only
by practice, with allowance for friction. The bias of the nation is
a passion for utility. They are heavy at the fine arts, but adroit at
the coarse. The Frenchman invented the ruffle, the Englishman added the
shirt. They think him the best-dressed man whose dress is so fit for
his use that you cannot notice or remember to describe it.

In war the Englishman looks to his means; but, conscious that no
better race of men exists, they rely most on the simplest means. They
fundamentally believe that the best stratagem in naval war is to bring
your ship alongside of the enemy's ship, and bring all your guns to
bear on him until you or he go to the bottom. This is the old fashion
which never goes out of fashion.

Tacitus said of the Germans: "Powerful only in sudden efforts, they are
impatient of toil and labour." This highly destined race, if it had
not somewhere added the chamber of patience to its brain, would not
have built London. I know not from which of the tribes and temperaments
that went to the composition of the people this tenacity was supplied,
but they clinch every nail they drive. "To show capacity," a Frenchman
described as the end of speech in a debate. "No," said an Englishman,
"but to advance the business."

The nation sits in the immense city they have builded--a London
extended into every man's mind. The modern world is theirs. They have
made and make it day by day. In every path of practical ability they
have gone even with the best. There is no department of literature, of
science, or of useful art in which they have not produced a first-rate
book. It is England whose opinion is waited for. English trade exists
to make well everything which is ill-made elsewhere. Steam is almost an
Englishman.

One secret of the power of this people is their mutual good
understanding. Not only good minds are born among them, but all the
people have good minds. An electric touch by any of their national
ideas melts them into one family. The chancellor carries England on
his mace, the midshipman at the point of his dirk, the smith on his
hammer, the cook in the bowl of his spoon, and the sailor times his
oars to "God save the King!"

I find the Englishman to be him of all men who stands firmest in
his shoes. The one thing the English value is pluck. The word is
not beautiful, but on the quality they signify by it the nation is
unanimous. The cabmen have it, the merchants have it, the bishops have
it, the women have it, the journals have it. They require you to dare
to be of your own opinion, and they hate the practical cowards who
cannot answer directly Yes or No.

Their vigour appears in the incuriosity and stony neglect each of the
other. Each man walks, eats, drinks, shaves, dresses, gesticulates,
and in every manner acts and suffers, without reference to the
bystanders--he is really occupied with his own affairs, and does not
think of them. In short, every one of these islanders is an island
himself, safe, tranquil, incommunicable.

Born in a harsh and wet climate, which keeps him indoors whenever he is
at rest, and, being of an affectionate and loyal temper, the Englishman
dearly loves his home. If he is rich he builds a hall, and brings to
it trophies of the adventures and exploits of the family, till it
becomes a museum of heirlooms. England produces, under favourable
conditions of ease and culture, the finest women in the world. Nothing
can be more delicate without being fantastical, than the courtship and
mutual carriage of the sexes. Domesticity is the taproot which enables
the nation to branch wide and high. In an aristocratical country
like England, not the trial by jury, but the dinner is the capital
institution. It is the mode of doing honour to a stranger to ask him to
eat.

The practical power of the English rests on their sincerity. Alfred,
whom the affection of the nation makes the type of their race, is
called by a writer at the Norman Conquest, the "truth-speaker." The
phrase of the lowest of the people is "honour-bright," and their
praise, "his word is as good as his bond." They confide in each
other--English believes in English. Madame de Staël says that the
English irritated Napoleon mainly because they have found out how to
unite success with honesty. The ruling passion of an Englishman is a
terror of humbug.

The English race are reputed morose. They have enjoyed a reputation for
taciturnity for six or seven hundred years. Cold, repressive manners
prevail, and there is a wooden deadness in certain Englishmen which
surpasses all other countrymen. In the power of saying rude truth
no men rival them. They are proud and private, and even if disposed
to recreation will avoid an open garden. They are full of coarse
strength, butcher's meat, and sound sleep. They are good lovers, good
haters, slow but obstinate admirers, and very much steeped in their
temperament, like men hardly awaked from deep sleep which they enjoy.

The English have a mild aspect, and ringing, cheerful voice. Of
absolute stoutness of spirit, no nation has more or better examples.
They are good at storming redoubts, at boarding frigates, at dying in
the last ditch, or any desperate service which has daylight and honour
in it. They stoutly carry into every nook and corner of the earth
their turbulent sense of inquiry, leaving no lie uncontradicted, no
pretension unexamined.

They are very conscious of their advantageous position in history. I
suppose that all men of English blood in America, Europe, or Asia, have
a secret feeling of joy that they are not Frenchmen. They only are not
foreigners. In short, I am afraid that the English nature is so rank
and aggressive as to be a little incompatible with any other. The world
is not wide enough for two. More intellectual than other races, when
they live with other races they do not take their language, but bestow
their own. They subsidise other nations, and are not subsidised. They
proselytise and are not proselytised. They assimilate other nations to
themselves and are not assimilated.


_III.--Wealth, Aristocracy, and Religion_

There is no country in which so absolute a homage is paid to wealth.
There is a mixture of religion in it. The Englishman esteems wealth a
final certificate. He believes that every man has himself to thank if
he does not mend his condition. To pay their debts is their national
point of honour. The British armies are solvent, and pay for what they
take. The British empire is solvent. It is their maxim that the weight
of taxes must be calculated not by what is taken but by what is left.
They say without shame: "I cannot afford it." Such is their enterprise,
that there is enough wealth in England to support the entire population
in idleness one year. The proudest result of this creation of wealth is
that great and refined forces are put at the disposal of the private
citizen, and in the social world the Englishman to-day has the best
lot. I much prefer the condition of an English gentleman of the better
class to that of any potentate in Europe.

The feudal character of the English state, now that it is getting
obsolete, glares a little in contrast with democratic tendencies. But
the frame of society is aristocratic. Every man who becomes rich buys
land, and does what he can to fortify the nobility, into which he hopes
to rise. The taste of the people is conservative. They are proud of
the castles, language, and symbols of chivalry. English history is
aristocracy with the doors open. Who has courage and faculty, let him
come in.

All nobility in its beginnings was somebody's natural superiority. The
things these English have done were not done without peril of life, nor
without wisdom of conduct, and the first hands, it may be presumed,
were often challenged to show their right to their honours, or yield
them to better men.

Comity, social talent, and fine manners no doubt have had their part
also. The lawyer, the farmer, the silk mercer lies _perdu_ under the
coronet, and winks to the antiquary to say nothing. They were nobody's
sons who did some piece of work at a nice moment.

The English names are excellent--they spread an atmosphere of legendary
melody over the land. Older than epics and histories, which clothe
a nation, this undershirt sits close to the body. What stores of
primitive and savage observation it infolds! Cambridge is the bridge
of the Cam; Sheffield the field of the river Sheaf; Leicester the camp
of Lear; Waltham is Strong Town; Radcliffe is Red Cliff, and so on--a
sincerity and use in naming very striking to an American, whose country
is whitewashed all over with unmeaning names, the cast-off clothes of
the country from which the emigrants came, or named at a pinch from a
psalm tune.

In seeing old castles and cathedrals I sometimes say: "This was built
by another and a better race than any that now look on it." Their
architecture still glows with faith in immortality. Good churches are
not built by bad men; at least, there must be probity and enthusiasm
somewhere in society.

England felt the full heat of the Christianity which fermented Europe,
and, like the chemistry of fire, drew a firm line between barbarism
and culture. When the Saxon instinct had secured a service in the
vernacular tongue the Church was the tutor and university of the people.

Now the Anglican Church is marked by the grace and good sense of its
forms; by the manly grace of its clergy. The gospel it preaches is "By
taste are ye saved." The religion of England is part of good breeding.
When you see on the Continent the well-dressed Englishman come into
his ambassador's chapel and put his face for silent prayer into his
well-brushed hat, you cannot help feeling how much national pride prays
with him, and the religion of a gentleman.

At this moment the Church is much to be pitied. If a bishop meets an
intelligent gentleman and reads fatal interrogation in his eyes, he has
no resource but to take wine with him.

But the religion of England--is it the Established Church? No. Is it
the sects? No. Where dwells the religion? Tell me first where dwells
electricity, or motion, or thought? They do not dwell or stay at all.
Electricity is passing, glancing, gesticular; it is a traveller, a
newness, a secret. Yet, if religion be the doing of all good, and for
its sake the suffering of all evil, that divine secret has existed in
England from the days of Alfred to the days of Florence Nightingale,
and in thousands who have no fame.




Representative Men

  Some of the lectures delivered by Emerson during his lecturing
  tour in England were published in 1850 under the title of
  "Representative Men," and the main trend of their thought
  and opinion is here followed in Emerson's own words. It will
  be noted that the use of the term "sceptic," as applied to
  Montaigne, is not the ordinary use of the word, but signifies
  a person spontaneously given to free inquiry rather than
  aggressive disbelief. The estimate of Napoleon is original. In
  "Representative Men" Emerson is much more consecutive in his
  thought than is customary with him. His pearls are as plentiful
  here as elsewhere, but they are not scattered disconnectedly.


_Plato_

Among secular books, Plato only is entitled to Omar's fanatical
compliment to the Koran: "Burn all books, for their value is in this
book." Out of Plato come all things that are still written and debated
among men of thought. Plato is philosophy, and philosophy Plato. No
wife, no children had he, but the thinkers of all civilised nations are
his posterity, and are tinged with his mind.

Great geniuses have the shortest biographies. They lived in their
writings, and so their house and street life is commonplace. Their
cousins can tell you nothing about them. Plato, especially, has no
external biography.

Plato stands between the truth and every man's mind, and has almost
impressed language and the primary forms of thought with his name and
seal.

The first period of a nation, as of an individual, is the period of
unconscious strength. Children cry, scream, and stamp with fury, unable
to express their desires. As soon as they can speak and tell their
wants they become gentle. With nations he is as a god to them who can
rightly divide and define. This defining is philosophy. Philosophy is
the account which the human mind gives to itself of the constitution of
the world.

Two cardinal facts lie ever at the base of thought: Unity and
Variety--oneness and otherness.

To this partiality the history of nations corresponds. The country of
unity, faithful to the idea of a deaf, unimplorable, immense fate, is
Asia; on the other side, the genius of Europe is active and creative.
If the East loves infinity, the West delights in boundaries. Plato
came to join and enhance the energy of each. The excellence of Europe
and Asia is in his brain. No man ever more fully acknowledged the
Ineffable; but having paid his homage, as for the human race, to the
illimitable, he then stood erect, and for the human race affirmed:
"And yet things are knowable!" Full of the genius of Europe, he said
"Culture," he said "Nature," but he failed not to add, "There is also
the divine."

This leads us to the central figure which he has established in his
academy. Socrates and Plato are the double-star which the most powerful
instrument will not entirely separate. Socrates, in his traits and
genius, is the best example of that synthesis which constitutes
Plato's extraordinary power.

Socrates, a man of humble stem, and a personal homeliness so remarkable
as to be a cause of wit in others, was a cool fellow, with a knowledge
of his man, be he whom he might whom he talked with, which laid
the companion open to certain defeat in debate; and in debate he
immoderately delighted. He was what in our country people call "an old
one." This hard-headed humorist, whose drollery diverted the young
patricians, turns out in the sequel to have a probity as invincible as
his logic, and to be, under cover of this play, enthusiastic in his
religion. When accused before the judges, he affirmed the immortality
of the soul and a future reward and punishment, and, refusing to
recant, was condemned to die; he entered the prison and took away all
ignominy from the place. The fame of this prison, the fame of the
discourses there, and the drinking of the hemlock, are one of the most
precious passages in the history of the world.

The rare coincidence in one ugly body of the droll and the martyr, the
keen street debater with the sweetest saint known to any history at
that time, had forcibly struck the mind of Plato, and the figure of
Socrates placed itself in the foreground of the scene as the fittest
dispenser of the intellectual treasures he had to communicate.

It remains to say that the defect of Plato is that he is literary,
and never otherwise. His writings have not the vital authority which
the screams of prophets and the sermons of unlettered Arabs and Jews
possess.

And he had not a system. The acutest German, the lovingest disciple
could never tell what Platonism was. No power of genius has ever yet
had the smallest success in explaining existence. The perfect enigma
remains.


_Montaigne_

The philosophers affirm disdainfully the superiority of ideas. To
men of this world the man of ideas appears out of his reason. The
abstractionist and the materialist thus mutually exasperating each
other, there arises a third party to occupy the middle ground between
the two, the sceptic. He labours to be the beam of the balance. There
is so much to say on all sides. This is the position occupied by
Montaigne.

In 1571, on the death of his father, he retired from the practice of
the law, at Bordeaux, and settled himself on his estate. Downright
and plain dealing, and abhorring to be deceived or to deceive, he was
esteemed in the country for his sense and probity. In the civil wars of
the League, which converted every house into a fort, Montaigne kept his
gates open, and his house without defence. All parties freely came and
went, his courage and honor being universally esteemed.

Montaigne is the frankest and honestest of all writers. The essays are
an entertaining soliloquy on every random topic that comes into his
head, treating everything without ceremony, yet with masculine sense. I
know not anywhere the book that seems less written. It is the language
of conversation transferred to a book. Montaigne talks with shrewdness,
knows the world, and books, and himself; never shrieks, or protests, or
prays. He keeps the plain; he rarely mounts or sinks; he likes to feel
solid ground and the stones underneath.

We are natural believers. We are persuaded that a thread runs
through all things, and all worlds are strung on it as beads. But
though we reject a sour, dumpish unbelief, to the sceptical class,
which Montaigne represents, every man at some time belongs. The
ground occupied by the sceptic is the vestibule of the temple. The
interrogation of custom at all points is an inevitable stage in
the growth of every superior mind. It stands in the mind of the
wise sceptic that our life in this world is not quite so easy of
interpretation as churches and school books say. He does not wish to
take ground against these benevolences, but he says: "There are doubts.
Shall we, because good nature inclines us to virtue's side, say, 'There
are no doubts--and lie for the right?' Is not the satisfaction of the
doubts essential to all manliness?"

I may play with the miscellany of facts, and take those superficial
views which we call scepticism; but I know they will presently appear
to me in that order which makes scepticism impossible. For the world is
saturated with deity and law. Things seem to tend downward, to justify
despondency, to promote rogues, to defeat the just; but by knaves as
by martyrs the just cause is carried forward, and general ends are
somewhat answered. The world-spirit is a good swimmer, and storms and
waves cannot drown him. Through the years and the centuries, through
evil agents, through toys and atoms, a great and beneficent tendency
irresistibly streams. So let a man learn to look for the permanent in
the mutable and fleeting; let him learn to bear the disappearance of
things he was wont to reverence without losing his reverence.


_Shakespeare_

Shakespeare is the only biographer of Shakespeare. So far from
Shakespeare being the least known, he is the one person in all modern
history known to us. What point of morals, of manners, of economy,
of philosophy, of taste, of conduct of life has he not settled?
What district of man's work has he not remembered? What king has he
not taught statecraft? What maiden has not found him finer than her
delicacy? What lover has he not outloved?

Some able and appreciating critics think no criticism on Shakespeare
valuable that does not rest purely on the dramatic merit; that he is
falsely judged as poet and philosopher. I think as highly as these
critics of his dramatic merit, but still think it secondary. He was
a full man who liked to talk; a brain exhaling thoughts and images,
which, seeking vent, found the drama next at hand.

Shakespeare is as much out of the category of eminent authors as he is
out of the crowd. He is inconceivably wise; the others, conceivably.
With this wisdom of life is the equal endowment of imaginative and
lyric power. An omnipresent humanity co-ordinates all his faculties.
He has no peculiarity, no importunate topic, but all is duly given. No
mannerist is he; he has no discoverable egotism--the great he tells
greatly, the small subordinately. He is wise without emphasis or
assertion; he is strong as Nature is strong, who lifts the land into
mountain slopes without effort, and by the same rule as she floats a
bubble in the air, and likes as well to do the one as the other. This
power of transferring the inmost truth of things into music and verse
makes him the type of the poet.

One royal trait that belongs to Shakespeare is his cheerfulness. He
delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that
sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy, he sheds over the
universe. If he appeared in any company of human souls, who would not
march in his troop? He touches nothing that does not borrow health and
longevity from his festal style. He was master of the revels to mankind.


_Napoleon_

Among the eminent persons of the nineteenth century, Bonaparte owes his
predominance to the fidelity with which he expresses the aim of the
masses of active and cultivated men. If Napoleon was Europe, it was
because the people whom he swayed were little Napoleons. He is the
representative of the class of industry and skill. "God has granted,"
says the Koran, "to every people a prophet in its own tongue." Paris,
London, and New York, the spirit of commerce, of money, of material
power, were also to have their prophet--and Bonaparte was qualified and
sent. He was the idol of common men because he, in transcendent degree,
had the qualities and powers of common men. He came to his own and they
received him.

An Italian proverb declares that if you would succeed you must not be
too good. Napoleon renounced, once for all, sentiments and affections,
and helped himself with his hands and his head. The art of war was the
game in which he exerted his arithmetic. He had a directness of action
never before combined with so much comprehension. History is full of
the imbecility of kings and governors. They are a class of persons to
be much pitied, for they know not what they should do. But Napoleon
understood his business. He knew what to do, and he flew to his mark.
He put out all his strength; he risked everything; he spared nothing;
he went to the edge of his possibilities.

This vigour was guarded and tempered by the coldest prudence and
punctuality. His very attack was never the inspiration of courage, but
the result of calculation. The necessity of his position required a
hospitality to every sort of talent, and his feeling went along with
this policy. In fact, every species of merit was sought and advanced
under his government. Seventeen men in his time were raised from
common soldiers to the rank of king, marshal, duke, or general. I call
Napoleon the agent or attorney of the middle class of modern society.

His life was an experiment, under the most favourable conditions, of
the powers of intellect without conscience. All passed away, like the
smoke of his artillery, and left no trace. He did all that in him lay
to live and thrive without moral principle.


_Goethe_

I find a provision in the constitution of the world for the writer or
secretary who is to report the doings of the miraculous spirit of life
that everywhere throbs and works. Nature will be reported. All things
are engaged in writing their history. The planet goes attended by its
shadow. The air is full of sounds, the sky of tokens; the ground is all
memoranda and signatures.

Society has really no graver interest than the well-being of the
literary class. Still, the writer does not stand with us on any
commanding ground. I think this to be his own fault. There have been
times when he was a sacred person; he wrote Bibles; the first hymns;
the codes; the epics; tragic songs; Sibylline verses; Chaldæan oracles.
Every word was true, and woke the nations to new life. How can he be
honoured when he is a sycophant ducking to the giddy opinion of a
reckless public?

Goethe was the philosopher of the nineteenth century multitude,
hundred-handed, Argus-eyed, able and happy to cope with the century's
rolling miscellany of facts and sciences, and by his own versatility
dispose of them with ease; and what he says of religion, of passion,
of marriage, of manners, of property, of paper-money, of periods of
belief, of omens, of luck, of whatever else, refuses to be forgotten.

What distinguishes Goethe, for French and English readers, is an
habitual reference to interior truth. But I dare not say that Goethe
ascended to the highest grounds from which genius has spoken. He is
incapable of self-surrender to the moral sentiment. Goethe can never
be dear to men. His is a devotion to truth for the sake of culture.
But the idea of absolute eternal truth, without reference to my own
enlargement by it is higher; and the surrender to the torrent of poetic
inspiration is higher.




ERASMUS

Familiar Colloquies

  Desiderius Erasmus, the most learned ecclesiastic of the
  fifteenth century, and the friend of Luther and other reformers,
  was born at Rotterdam on October 28, 1466, and died at Basel on
  July 12, 1536. He was the son of a Dutchman named Gerard, and,
  according to the fashion of the age, changed his family name
  into its respective Latin and Greek equivalents, Desiderius and
  Erasmus, meaning "desired," or "loved." Entering the priesthood
  in 1492, he pursued his studies at Paris, and became so renowned
  a scholar that he was, on visiting England, received with
  distinction, not only at the universities, but also by the king.
  For some time Erasmus settled in Italy, brilliant prospects being
  held out to him at Rome; but his restless temperament impelled
  him to wander again, and he came again to England, where he
  associated with the most distinguished scholars, including Dean
  Colet and Sir Thomas More. Perhaps nothing in the whole range
  of mediæval literature made a greater sensation immediately on
  its appearance, in 1521, than the "Colloquia," or "Familiar
  Colloquies Concerning Men, Manners, and Things," of Erasmus. As
  its title indicates, it consists of dialogues, and its author
  intended it to make youths more proficient in Latin, that
  language being the chief vehicle of intercommunication in the
  Middle Ages. But Erasmus claims, in his preface, that another
  purpose of the book is to make better men as well as better
  Latinists, for he says: "If the ancient teachers of children are
  commended who allured the young with wafers, I think it ought
  not to be charged on me that by the like reward I allure youths
  either to the elegancy of the Latin tongue or to piety." This
  selection is made from the Latin text.


_Concerning Men, Manners and Things_

Erasmus issued his first edition of the "Colloquies" in 1521.
Successive editions appeared with great rapidity. Its popularity
wherever Latin was read was immense, but it was condemned by the
Sarbonne, prohibited in France, and devoted to the flames publicly
in Spain. The reader of its extraordinary chapters will not fail
to comprehend that such a fate was inevitable in the case of such a
production in those times. For, as the friend of the reformers who were
"turning the world upside down," Erasmus in this treatise penned the
most audacious, sardonic, and withering onslaught ever delivered by
any writer on ecclesiastical corruption of religion. He never attacks
religion itself, but extols and defends it; his aim is to launch a
series of terrific innuendoes on ecclesiasticism as it had developed
and as he saw it. He satirically, and even virulently, attacks monks
and many of their habits, the whole system of cloister-life, the
festivals and pilgrimages which formed one of the chief features of
religious activity, and the grotesque superstitions which his peculiar
genius for eloquent irony so well qualified him to caricature.

This great work, one of the epoch-making books of the world, consists
of sixty-two "Colloquies," of very varying length. They treat of the
most curiously diverse topics, as may be imagined from such titles of
the chapters as "The Youth's Piety," "The Lover and the Maiden," "The
Shipwreck," "The Epithalamium of Peter Egidius," "The Alchemist," "The
Horse Cheat," "The Cyclops, or the Gospel Carrier," "The Assembly or
Parliament of Women," "Concerning Early Rising."

A sample of the style of the "Colloquies" in the more serious sections
may be taken from the one entitled "The Religious Banquet."

NEPHEW: How unwillingly have I seen many Christians die. Some put their
trust in things not to be confided in; others breathe out their souls
in desperation, either out of a consciousness of their lewd lives, or
by reason of scruples that have been injected into their minds, even in
their dying hours, by some indiscreet men, die almost in despair.

CHRYSOGLOTTUS: It is no wonder to find them die so, who have spent
their lives in philosophising all their lives about ceremonies.

NEPHEW: What do you mean by ceremonies?

CHRYSOGLOTTUS: I will tell you, but with protestation beforehand,
over and over, that I do not find fault with the rites and sacraments
of the Church, but rather highly approve of them; but I blame a
wicked and superstitious sort of people who teach people to put their
confidence in these things, omitting those things that make them truly
Christians. If you look into Christians in common, do they not live as
if the whole sum of religion consisted in ceremonies? With how much
pomp are the ancient rites of the Church set forth in baptism? The
infant waits without the church door, the exorcism is performed, the
catechism is performed, vows are made, Satan is abjured with all his
pomps and pleasures; then the child is anointed, signed, seasoned with
salt, dipped, a charge given to its sureties to see it well brought
up; and the oblation money being paid, they are discharged, and by
this time the child passes for a Christian, and in some sense is so. A
little time after it is anointed again, and in time learns to confess,
receive the sacrament, is accustomed to rest on holy days, to hear
divine service, to fast sometimes, to abstain from flesh; and if he
observes all these he passes for an absolute Christian. He marries a
wife, and then comes on another sacrament; he enters into holy orders,
is anointed again and consecrated, his habit is changed, and then to
prayers.

Now, I approve of the doing of all this well enough, but the doing
of them more out of custom than conscience I do not approve. But to
think that nothing else is requisite for the making of a Christian I
absolutely disapprove. For the greater part of the men in the world
trust to these things, and think they have nothing else to do but get
wealth by right or wrong, to gratify their passions of lust, rage,
malice, ambition. And this they do till they come on their death-bed.
And then follow more ceremonies--confession upon confession more
unction still, the eucharists are administered; tapers, the cross, the
holy water are brought in; indulgences are procured, if they are to be
had for love or money; and orders are given for a magnificent funeral.
Now, although these things may be well enough, as they are done in
conformity to ecclesiastical customs, yet there are some more internal
impressions which have an efficacy to fortify us against the assaults
of death by filling our hearts with joy, and helping us to go out of
the world with a Christian assurance.

EUSEBIUS: When I was in England I saw St. Thomas' tomb all over
bedecked with a vast number of jewels of an immense price, besides
other rich furniture, even to admiration. I had rather that these
superfluities should be applied to charitable uses than to be reserved
for princes that shall one time or other make a booty of them. The holy
man, I am confident, would have been better pleased to have had his
tomb adorned with leaves and flowers.... Rich men, nowadays, will have
their monuments in churches, whereas in time past they could hardly get
room for their saints there. If I were a priest or a bishop, I would
put it into the head of these thick-skulled courtiers or merchants
that if they would atone for their sins to Almighty God they should
privately bestow their liberality on the relief of the poor.

       *       *       *       *       *

A wonderful plea for peace, in shape of an exquisite satire, is the
"Colloquy" entitled "Charon." It is a dialogue between Charon, the
ghostly boatman on the River Styx, and Genius Alastor. Its style may be
gathered from the following excerpt.

CHARON: Whither are you going so brisk, and in such haste, Alastor?

ALASTOR: O Charon, you come in the nick of time; I was coming to you.

CHARON: Well, what news do you bring?

ALASTOR: I bring a message to you and Prosperine that you will be glad
to hear. All the Furies have been no less diligent than they have been
successful in gaining their point. There is not one foot of ground
upon earth that they have not infected with their hellish calamities,
seditions, wars, robberies, and plagues. Do you get your boat and your
oars ready; you will have such a vast multitude of ghosts come to you
anon that I am afraid you will not be able to carry them all over
yourself.

CHARON: I could have told you that.

ALASTOR: How came you to know it?

CHARON: Ossa brought me that news about two days ago!

ALASTOR: Nothing is more swift than that goddess. But what makes you
loitering here, having left your boat?

CHARON: My business brought me hither. I came hither to provide myself
with a good strong three-oared boat, for my boat is so rotten and leaky
with age that it will not carry such a burden, if Ossa told me true.

ALASTOR: What was it that Ossa told you?

CHARON: That the three monarchs of the world were bent upon each
other's destruction with a mortal hatred, and that no part of
Christendom was free from the rage of war; for these three have drawn
in all the rest to be engaged in the war with them. They are all so
haughty that not one of them will in the least submit to the other.
Nor are the Danes, the Poles, the Scots, nor the Turks at quiet, but
are preparing to make dreadful havoc. The plague rages everywhere: in
Spain, Britain, Italy, France; and, more than all, there is a new fire
sprung out of the variety of opinions, which has so corrupted the minds
of all men that there is no such thing as sincere friendship anywhere;
but brother is at enmity with brother, and husband and wife cannot
agree. And it is to be hoped that this distraction will be a glorious
destruction of mankind, if these controversies, that are now managed by
the tongue and pen, come once to be decided by arms.

ALASTOR: All that fame has told you is true; for I myself, having been
a constant companion of the Furies, have with these eyes seen more than
all this, and that they never at any time have approved themselves more
worthy of their name than now.

CHARON: But there is danger lest some good spirit should start up and
of a sudden exhort them to peace. And men's minds are variable, for
I have heard that among the living there is one Polygraphus who is
continually, by his writing, inveighing against wars, and exhorting to
peace.

ALASTOR: Ay, ay, but he has a long time been talking to the deaf. He
once wrote a sort of hue and cry after peace, that was banished or
driven away; after that an epitaph upon peace defunct. But then, on the
other hand, there are others that advance our cause no less than do
the Furies themselves. They are a sort of animals in black and white
vestments, ash-coloured coats, and various other dresses, that are
always hovering about the courts of the princes, and are continually
instilling into their ears the love of war, and exhorting the nobility
and common people to it, haranguing them in their sermons that it is a
just, holy, and religious war. And that which would make you stand in
admiration at the confidence of these men is the cry of both parties.
In France they preach it up that God is on the French side, and that
they can never be overcome that has God for their protector. In
England and Spain the cry is, "The war is not the king's, but God's";
therefore, if they do but fight like men, they depend on getting the
victory, and if anyone should chance to fall in the battle, he will not
die, but fly directly up into heaven, arms and all.




In Praise of Folly

  "The Praise of Folly" was written in Latin, and the title,
  "Encomium Moriæ," is a pun on the name of his friend, the Greek
  word _moria_ (folly) curiously corresponding with his host's
  family name. The purpose of this inimitable satire is to cover
  every species of foolish men and women with ridicule. Yet through
  all the biting sarcasm runs an unbroken vein of religious
  seriousness, the contrast greatly enhancing the impression
  produced by this masterpiece.


_I.--Stultitia's Declamation_

In whatever manner I, the Goddess of Folly, may be generally spoken of
by mortals, yet I assert it emphatically that it is from me, Stultitia,
and from my influence only, that gods and men derive all mirth and
cheerfulness. You laugh, I see. Well, even that is a telling argument
in my favour. Actually now, in this most numerous assembly, as soon as
ever I have opened my mouth, the countenances of all have instantly
brightened up with fresh and unwonted hilarity, whereas but a few
moments ago you were all looking demure and woebegone.

On my very brow my name is written. No one would take me, Stultitia,
for Minerva. No one would contend that I am the Goddess of Wisdom. The
mere expression of my countenance tells its own tale. Not only am I
incapable of deceit, but even those who are under my sway are incapable
of deceit likewise. From my illustrious sire, Plutus [Wealth], I glory
to be sprung, for he, and no other, was the great progenitor of gods
and men, and I care not what Hesiod, or Homer, or even Jupiter himself
may maintain to the contrary. Everything, I affirm, is subjected to the
control of Plutus. War, peace, empires, designs, judicial decisions,
weddings, treaties, alliances, laws, arts, things ludicrous and things
serious, are all administered in obedience to his sovereign will.

Now notice the admirable foresight which nature exercises, in order
to ensure that men shall never be destitute of folly as the principal
ingredient in their constitution. Wisdom, as your divines and moralists
put it, consists in men being guided by their reason; and folly, in
their being actuated by their passions. See then here what Jupiter
has done. In order to prevent the life of man from being utterly
intolerable, he has endowed him with reason in singularly small
proportion to his passions--only, so to speak, as a half-ounce is to a
pound. And whereas he has dispersed his passions over every portion of
his body, he has confined his reason to a narrow little crevice in his
skull.

And yet, of these silly human beings, the male sex is born under the
necessity of transacting the business of the world. When Jupiter was
taking counsel with me I advised him to add a woman to the man--a
creature foolish and frivolous, but full of laughter and sweetness,
who would season and sweeten by her folly the sadness of his manly
intelligence.

When Plato doubted whether or not he should place women in the class
of rational animals, he really only wished to indicate the remarkable
silliness of that sex. Yet women will not be so absolutely senseless as
to be offended if I, a woman myself, the goddess Stultitia, tell them
thus plainly that they are fools. They will, if they look at the matter
aright, be flattered by it. For they are by many degrees more favoured
creatures than men. They have beauty--and oh, what a gift is that! By
its power they rule the rulers of the world.

The supreme wish of women is to win the admiration of men, and they
have no more effectual means to this end than folly. Men, no doubt,
will contend that it is the pleasure they have in women's society, and
not their folly, that attracts them. I answer that their pleasure is
folly, and nothing but folly, in which they delight. You see, then,
from what fountain is derived the highest and most exquisite enjoyment
that falls to man's lot in life. But there are some men (waning old
crones, most of them) who love their glasses better than the lasses,
and place their chief delight in tippling. Others love to make fools
of themselves to raise a laugh at a feast, and I beg to say that of
laughter, fun, and pleasantry, I--Folly--am the sole purveyor.


_II.--The Mockery of Wisdom_

So much for the notion that wisdom is of any use in the pleasures of
life. Well, the next thing that our gods of wisdom will assert is that
wisdom is necessary for affairs of state. Says Plato, "Those states
will prosper whose rulers are guided by the spirit of philosophy." With
this opinion I totally disagree. Consult history, and it will tell you
that the two Catos, Brutus, Cassius, the Gracchi, Cicero, and Marcus
Antoninus all disturbed the tranquillity of the state and brought down
on them by their philosophy the disgust and disfavour of the citizens.
And who are the men who are most prone, from weariness of life, to
seek to put an end to it? Why, men of reputed wisdom. Not to mention
Diogenes, the Catos, the Cassii, and the Bruti, there is the remarkable
case of Chiron, who, though he actually had immortality conferred on
him, voluntarily preferred death.

You see, then, that if men were universally wise, the world would be
depopulated, and there would be need of a new creation. But, since the
world generally is under the influence of folly and not of wisdom, the
case is, happily, different. I, Folly, by inspiring men with hopes
of good things they will never get, so charm away their woes that
they are far from wishing to die. Nay, the less cause there is for
them to desire to live, the more, nevertheless, do they love life. It
is of my bounty that you see everywhere men of Nestorean longevity,
mumbling, without brains, without teeth, whose hair is white, whose
heads are bald, so enamoured of life, so eager to look youthful, that
they use dyes, wigs, and other disguises, and take to wife some frisky
heifer of a creature; while aged and cadaverous-looking women are seen
caterwauling, and, as the Greeks express it, behaving goatishly, in
order to induce some beauteous Phaon to pay court to them.

As to the wisdom of the learned professions, the more empty-headed and
the more reckless any member of any one of them is, the more he will be
thought of. The physician is always in request, and yet medicine, as it
is now frequently practised, is nothing but a system of pure humbug.
Next in repute to the physicians stand the pettifogging lawyers, who
are, according to the philosophers, a set of asses. And asses, I grant
you that, they are. Nevertheless, it is by the will and pleasure of
these asses that the business of the world is transacted, and they make
fortunes while the poor theologians starve.

By the immortal gods, I solemnly swear to you that the happiest men
are those whom the world calls fools, simpletons, and blockheads. For
they are entirely devoid of the fear of death. They have no accusing
consciences to make them fear it. They are, happily, without the
experience of the thousands of cares that lacerate the minds of other
men. They feel no shame, no solicitude, no ambition, no envy, no love.
And, according to the theologians, they are free from any imputation of
the guilt of sin! Ah, ye besotted men of wisdom, you need no further
evidence than the ills you have gone through to convince you from what
a mass of calamities I have delivered my idiotic favourites.

To be deceived, people say, is wretched. But I hold that what is most
wretched is not to be deceived. They are in great error who imagine
that a man's happiness consists in things as they are. No; it consists
entirely in his opinion of what they are. Man is so constituted that
falsehood is far more agreeable to him than truth.

Does anyone need proof of this? Let him visit the churches, and
assuredly he will find it. If solemn truth is dwelt on, the listeners
at once become weary, yawn, and sleep; but if the orator begins some
silly tale, they are all attention. And the saints they prefer to
appeal to are those whose histories are most made up of fable and
romance. Though to be deceived adds much more to your happiness than
not to be deceived, it yet costs you much less trouble.

And now to pass to another argument in my favour. Among all the praises
of Bacchus this is the chief, that he drives away care; but he does it
only for a short time, and then all your care comes again. How much
more complete are the benefits mankind derive from me! I also afford
them intoxication, but an intoxication whose influence is perennial,
and all, too, without cost to them. And my favours I deny to nobody.
Mars, Apollo, Saturn, Phœbus, and Neptune are more chary of their
bounties and dole them out to their favourites only but I confine my
favours to none.


_III.--Classification of Fools_

Of all the men whose doings I have witnessed, the most sordid are men
of trade, and appropriately so, for they handle money, a very sordid
thing indeed. Yet, though they lie, pilfer, cheat, and impose on
everybody, as soon as they grow rich they are looked up to as princes.
But as I look round among the various classes of men, I specially note
those who are esteemed to possess more than ordinary sagacity. Among
these a foremost place is occupied by the schoolmasters. How miserable
would these be were it not that I, Folly, of my benevolence, ameliorate
their wretchedness and render them insanely happy in the midst of their
drudgery! Their lot is one of semi-starvation and of debasing slavery.
In the schools, those bridewells of uproar and confusion, they grow
prematurely old and broken down, Yet, thanks to my good services, they
know not their own misery. For in their own estimation they are mighty
fine fellows, strutting about and striking terror into the hearts of
trembling urchins, half scarifying the little wretches with straps,
canes, and birches. They are, apparently, quite unconscious of the dust
and dirt with which their schoolrooms are polluted. In fact, their own
most wretched servitude is to them a kingdom of felicity.

The poets owe less to me. Yet they, too, are enthusiastic devotees of
mine, for their entire business consists in tickling the ears of fools
with silly ditties and ridiculously romantic tales. Of the services of
my attendants, Philautia [Self-approbation] and Kolakia [Flattery],
they never fail to avail themselves, and really I do not know that
there is any other class of men in the world amongst whom I should find
more devoted and constant followers.

Moreover, there are the rhetoricians. Quintilian, the prince of them
all, has written an immense chapter on no more serious subject than
how to excite a laugh. Those, again, who hunt after immortal fame in
the domain of literature unquestionably belong to my fraternity. Poor
fellows! They pass a wretched existence poring over their manuscripts,
and for what reward? For the praise of the very, very limited few who
are capable of appreciating their erudition.

Very naturally, the barristers merit our attention next. Talk of
female garrulity! Why, I would back any one of them to win a prize for
chattering against any twenty of the most talkative women that you
could pick out. And well indeed would it be if they had no worse fault
than that. I am bound to say that they are not only loquacious, but
pugnacious. Their quarrelsomeness is astounding.

After these come the bearded and gowned philosophers. Their insane
self-deception as to their sagacity and learning is very delightful.
They beguile their time with computing the magnitude of the sun,
moon, and stars, and they assign causes for all the phenomena of the
universe, as if nature had initiated them into all her secrets. In
reality they know nothing, but profess to know everything.


_IV.--On Princes and Pontiffs_

It is high time that I should say a few words to you about kings and
the royal princes belonging to their courts. Very different are they
from those whom I have just been describing, who pretend to be wise
when they are the reverse, for these high personages frankly and openly
live a life of folly, and it is just that I should give them their
due, and frankly and openly tell them so. They seem to regard it to be
the duty of a king to addict himself to the chase; to keep up a grand
stud of horses; to extract as much money as possible from the people;
to caress by every means in his power the vulgar populace, in order to
win their good graces, and so make them the subservient tools of his
tyrannical behests.

As for the grandees of the court, a more servile, insipid, empty-headed
set than the generality of them you will fail to find anywhere. Yet
they wish to be regarded as the greatest personalities on earth. Not a
very modest wish, and yet, in one respect, they are modest enough. For
instance, they wish to be bedecked with gold and gems and purple, and
other external symbols of worth and wisdom, but nothing further do they
require.

These courtiers, however, are superlatively happy in the belief that
they are perfectly virtuous. They lie in bed till noon. Then they
summon their chaplain to their bedside to offer up the sacrifice of
the mass, and as the hireling priest goes through his solemn farce
with perfunctory rapidity, they, meanwhile, have all but dropped
off again into a comfortable condition of slumber. After this they
betake themselves to breakfast; and that is scarcely over when dinner
supervenes. And then come their pastimes--their dice, their cards, and
their gambling--their merriment with jesters and buffoons, and their
gallantries with court favourites.

Next let us turn our attention to popes, cardinals, and bishops, who
have long rivalled, if they do not surpass, the state and magnificence
of princes. If bishops did but bear in mind that a pastoral staff is an
emblem of pastoral duties, and that the cross solemnly carried before
them is a reminder of the earnestness with which they should strive
to crucify the flesh, their lot would be one replete with sadness and
solicitude. As things are, a right bonny time do they spend, providing
abundant pasturage for themselves, and leaving their flocks to the
negligent charge of so-called friars and vicars.

Fortune favours the fool. We colloquially speak of him and such as him
as "lucky birds," while, when we speak of a wise man, we proverbially
describe him as one who has been "born under an evil star," and as one
whose "horse will never carry him to the front." If you wish to get a
wife, mind, above all things, that you beware of wisdom; for the girls,
without exception, are heart and soul so devoted to fools, that you may
rely on it a man who has any wisdom in him they will shun as they would
a vampire.

And now, to sum up much in a few words, go among what classes of men
you will, go among popes, princes, cardinals, judges, magistrates,
friends, foes, great men, little men, and you will not fail to find
that a man with plenty of money at his command has it in his power to
obtain everything that he sets his heart upon. A wise man, however,
despises money. And what is the consequence? Everyone despises him!




GESTA ROMANORUM

A Story-Book of the Middle Ages

  The "Gesta Romanorum," or "Deeds of the Romans," a quaint
  collection of moral tales compiled by the monks, was used in
  the Middle Ages for pulpit instruction. Hence the curious
  "Applications" to the stories, two of which are here given as
  examples. Wynkyn de Worde was the first to print the "Gesta" in
  English, about 1510. His version is based on Latin manuscripts
  of English origin, and differs from the first edition, and from
  the Latin text printed abroad about 1473. The stories have
  little to do with authentic Roman history, and abound in amusing
  confusions, contradictions, and anachronisms. But their interest
  is undeniable, and they form the source of many famous pieces of
  English literature. In the English "Gesta" occur the originals of
  the bond and casket incidents in "The Merchant of Venice."


_I.--Of Love_

Pompey was a wise and powerful king. He had one well-beloved daughter,
who was very beautiful. Her he committed to the care of five soldiers,
who were to guard her night and day. Before the door of the princess's
chamber they hung a burning lamp, and, moreover, they kept a
loud-barking dog to rouse them from sleep. But the lady panted for the
pleasures of the world, and one day, looking abroad, she was espied by
a certain amorous duke, who made her many fair promises.

Hoping much from these, the princess slew the dog, put out the light,
and fled by night with the duke. Now, there was in the palace a certain
doughty champion, who pursued the fugitives and beheaded the duke. He
brought the lady home again; but her father would not see her, and
thenceforward she passed her time bewailing her misdeeds.

Now, at court there was a wise and skilful mediator, who, being moved
with compassion, reconciled the lady with her father and betrothed
her to a powerful nobleman. The king then gave his daughter diverse
gifts. These were a rich, flowing tunic inscribed with the words,
"Forgiven. Sin no more"; and a golden coronet with the legend, "Thy
dignity is from me." Her champion gave her a ring, engraved, "I have
loved thee; learn thou to love." Likewise the mediator bestowed a ring,
saying, "What have I done? How much? Why?" A third ring was given by
the king's son, with the words: "Despise not thy nobility." A fourth
ring, from her brother, bore the motto: "Approach! Fear not. I am thy
brother." Her husband gave a golden coronet, confirming his wife in
the inheritance of his possessions, and superscribed: "Now thou are
espoused, sin no more."

The lady kept these gifts as long as she lived. She regained the
affections of those whom her folly had estranged, and closed her days
in peace.


APPLICATION

My beloved, the king is our Heavenly Father; the daughter is the soul;
the guardian soldiers are the five senses; the lamp is the will; the
dog is conscience; the duke is the Evil One. The mediator is Christ.
The cloak is our Lord's wounded body. The champion and the brother are
likewise Christ; the coronet is His crown of thorns; the rings are the
wounds in His hands and feet. He is also the Spouse. Let us study to
keep these gifts uninjured.


_II.--Of Fidelity_

The subject of a certain king, being captured by pirates, wrote to
his father for ransom; but the father refused, and the youth was
left wasting in prison. Now, his captor had a beautiful and virtuous
daughter, who came to comfort the prisoner. At first he was too
disconsolate to listen to her, but at length he begged her to try
to set him free. The lady feared her father's wrath, but at last, on
promise of marriage, she freed the young man, and fled with him to his
own country. His father said, "Son, I am overjoyed at thy return, but
who is the lady under thy escort?"

When his son told him, he charged him, on pain of losing his
inheritance, not to marry her.

"But she released me from deadly peril," said the youth.

The father answered, "Son, thou mayest not confide in her, for she hath
deceived her own father; and, furthermore, although she indeed set
thee free, it was but to oblige thee to marry her. And since it was an
unworthy passion that was the source of thy liberty, I think that she
ought not to be thy wife."

When the lady heard these reasons, she answered thus, "I have not
deceived my parent. He that deceives diminishes a certain good. But my
father is so rich that he needs not any addition. Wherefore, your son's
ransom would have left him but little richer, while you it would have
utterly impoverished. I have thus served you, and done my father no
injury. As for unworthy passion, that arises from wealth, honours, or a
handsome appearance, none of which your son possessed, for he had not
even enough to procure his ransom, and imprisonment had destroyed his
beauty. Therefore, I freed him out of compassion."

When the father heard this, he could object nothing more. So the son
married the lady with great pomp, and closed his life in peace.


APPLICATION

My beloved, the son is the human race, led captive by the devil. The
father is the world, that will not redeem the sinner, but loves to
detain him. The daughter is Christ.


_III.--O Venial Sin_

Julian, a noble soldier, fond of the chase, was one day pursuing a
stag, which turned and addressed him thus, "Thou who pursuest me so
fiercely shalt one day destroy thy parents."

In great alarm, Julian sought a far country, where he enlisted with a
certain chieftain. For his renowned services in war and peace he was
made a knight, and wedded to the widow of a castellan, with her castle
as a dowry.

Meanwhile, his parents sought him sorrowing, and coming at length to
Julian's castle in his absence, they told his wife their story. The
lady, for the love she bore her husband, put them into her own bed, and
early in the morning went forth to her devotions. Julian returned, and
softly entering his wife's apartment, saw two persons therein, and was
filled with terrible alarm for his lady's fealty.

Without pause, he slew both, and hurried out. Meeting his wife in the
church porch, he fell into amazement, and asked who they might be.
Hearing the truth, he was shaken with an agony of tears, and cried,
"Accursed that I am! Dearest wife, forgive, and receive my last
farewell!"

"Nay," she replied. "Wilt thou abandon me, beloved, and leave me
widowed? I, that have shared thy happiness will now share thy grief!"

Together they departed to a great and dangerous river, where many had
perished. There they built a hospital, where they abode in contrition,
ferrying over such as wished to cross the river, and cherishing the
poor. After many years, Julian was aroused at midnight by a dolorous
voice calling his name. He found and ferried over a leper, perishing
with cold. Failing to warm the wretch by other means, Julian placed
him in his own bed, and strove by the heat of his own body to restore
him. After a while he who seemed sick and cold and leprous appeared
robed in immortal splendour, and, waving his light wings, seemed ready
to mount up into heaven. Turning upon his wondering host a look of the
utmost benignity, the visitant exclaimed, "Julian, the Lord hath sent
me to thee to announce the acceptance of thy contrition. Ere long thou
and thy partner will sleep in Him."

So saying, the angelic messenger disappeared, and Julian and his wife,
after a short time occupied in good works, died in peace.


_IV.--Of the End of Sinners_

Dionysius records that Perillus, wishing to become the artificer of
Phalaris, the cruel tyrant of Agrigentum, presented him with a brazen
bull. In its side was a secret door, for the entry of those who should
be burned to death within. The idea was that the agonised cries of the
victim, resembling the roaring of a bull and nothing human, should
arouse no feeling of mercy. The king, highly applauding the invention,
said, "Friend, the value of thy industry is still untried; more cruel
even than the people account me, thou thyself shalt be the first
victim."

There is no law more equitable than that "the artificer of death should
perish by his own devices," as Ovid hath observed.


_V.--Of Too Much Pride_

As the Emperor Jovinian lay abed, reflecting on his power and
possessions, he impiously asked, "Is there any other god than I?"

Amid such thoughts he fell asleep.

Now, on the morrow, as he followed the chase, he separated himself
from his followers in order to bathe in a stream. And as he bathed, one
like him in all respects took the emperor's dress, and arraying himself
in them, mounted the monarch's horse, and joined the royal retinue,
who knew him not from their master. Jovinian, horseless and naked, was
vexed beyond measure.

"Miserable that I am," he exclaimed, "I will to a knight who lives
hard by. Him have I promoted; haply he will befriend me." But when he
declared himself to be Jovinian, the knight ordered him to be flogged.
"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the emperor, "is it possible that one whom I
have loaded with honours should use me thus?"

Next he sought out a certain duke, one of his privy counsellors, and
told his tale.

"Poor, mad wretch," said the duke. "I am but newly returned from the
palace, where I left the emperor."

He therefore had Jovinian flogged, and imprisoned. Contriving to
escape, he went to the palace. "Surely," he reflected, "my servants
will know me." But his own porter denied him. Nevertheless, he
persuaded the man to take a secret sign to the empress, and to demand
his imperial robes. The empress, sitting at table with the feigned
emperor, was much disturbed, and said, "Oh, my lord, there is a vile
fellow at the gate who declares the most hidden passages of our life,
and says he is my husband."

Being condemned to be dragged by a horse's tail, Jovinian, in despair,
sought his confessor's cell. But the holy man would not open to him,
although at last, being adjured by the name of the Crucified, he gave
him shrift at the window. Thereupon he knew the emperor, and giving him
some clothes, bade him show himself again at the palace. This he did,
and was received with due obeisance. Still, none knew which was the
emperor, and which the impostor, until the feigned emperor spake.

"I," said he, "am the guardian angel of the king's soul. He has now
purged his pride by penance; let your obedience wait on him."

So saying, he disappeared. The emperor gave thanks to God, lived
happily after, and finished his days in peace.


_VI.--Of Avarice_

A covetous and wicked carpenter placed all his riches in a log, which
he hid by his fireside. Now, the sea swept away that part of his house,
and drifted the log to a city where lived a generous man. He found the
log, cleft it, and laid the gold in a secure place until he should
discover the owner.

Now, the carpenter, seeking his wealth with lamentations, came by
chance to the house of him that had found it. Mentioning his loss, his
host said to himself, "I will prove if God will that I return his money
to him." He then made three cakes, one filled with earth, the second
with dead men's bones, and the third with some of the lost gold. The
carpenter, being invited to choose, weighed the cakes in his hand, and
finding that with earth heaviest, took it.

"And if I want more, my worthy host," said he, "I will choose that,"
laying his hand on the cake containing the bones. "The third you may
keep for yourself."

"Thou miserable varlet," cried the host. "It is thine own gold, which
plainly the Lord wills not that I return to thee."

So saying, he distributed all the treasure among the poor, and drove
the carpenter away from his house in great tribulation.


_VII.--Of Temporary Tribulation_

Antiochus, king of Antioch, had one lovely daughter, who was much
courted. But her father, seeking to withhold her from marriage,
proposed a riddle to every suitor, and each one who failed to guess the
answer was put to death. Among the suitors came Apollonius, the young
Prince of Tyre, who guessed the riddle, the answer to which revealed a
shameful secret of the king's life. Antiochus, loudly denying that the
young man had hit upon the truth, sent him away for thirty days, and
bade him try again, on pain of death. So Apollonius departed.

Now, Antiochus sent his steward, Taliarchus, to Tyre, with orders to
destroy Apollonius; but by the time the steward arrived the prince had
put to sea in a fleet laden with treasure, corn, and many changes of
raiment. Hearing this, Antiochus set a price on the head of Apollonius,
and pursued him with a great armament. The prince, arriving at Tharsus,
saved that city from famine by the supplies he brought, and a statue
was raised in his honour. Then, by the advice of one Stranguilio and
his wife, Dionysias, he sailed to Pentapolis. On the way he suffered
shipwreck, and reached that city on a plank. There, by his skill in
athletics and music, he won the favour of Altistrates, the king, who
gave him his daughter to wife.

Some time after, hearing that the wicked Antiochus and his daughter
had been killed by lightning, Apollonius and his wife set sail to take
up the sovereignty of Antioch, which had fallen to him. On the way the
lady died, leaving a new-born daughter. The prince placed his wife's
body in a coffin smeared with pitch, and committed it to the deep. In
the coffin he put money and a tablet, instructing anyone who found the
body to bury it sumptuously. Apollonius returned to Pentapolis and
gave his infant daughter into the care of Stranguilio and Dionysias.
Then he himself sailed away and wandered the world in deep grief. In
the meantime, his wife's body was cast up at Ephesus, and was found by
the physician Cerimon, one of whose pupils revived the lady, who became
a vestal of Diana.

Years passed, and the child, who was called Tharsia, incurred the
jealousy of Dionysias, because she was fairer than her own child
Philomatia. Dionysias sought to kill Tharsia, who, at the critical
moment, was carried away by pirates, and sold into slavery at
Machylena. There her beauty and goodness protected her, so that none
who came to her master's evil house would do her wrong. She persuaded
her owner to let her earn her bread by her accomplishments in music and
the unravelling of hard sayings. Thus she won the love of the prince of
that place, Athanagoras, who protected her.

Some time afterwards a strange fleet came to Machylena. Athanagoras,
struck by the beauty of one of the ships, went on board, and asked to
see the owner. He found a rugged and melancholy man, who was none other
than Apollonius. In due time that prince was joyfully reunited with his
child, who was given in marriage to her perserver. Speedy vengeance
overtook Tharsia's cruel owner, and later Stranguilio and Dionysias
suffered for their misdeeds. Being warned by a dream to return to
Ephesus, Apollonius found his wife in the precinct of the vestals, and,
together with her, he reigned long and happily over Antioch and Tyre.
After death he went into everlasting life. To which may God, of His
infinite mercy, lead us all.




OLIVER GOLDSMITH

The Citizen of the World

  "The Citizen of the World," after appearing in the "Public
  Ledger" newspaper in 1760-61, was published in two volumes in
  1762, with the sub-title, "Letters from a Chinese Philosopher,
  Residing in London, to his Friends in the East." It established
  Goldsmith's literary reputation (see Vol. IV, p. 275). The
  author's main purpose was to indulge in a keen, but not
  ill-natured, satire upon Western, and especially upon English,
  civilisation; but sometimes the satiric manner yields place to
  the philosophical.


_The Troubles of the Great_

FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM, FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE CEREMONIAL
ACADEMY AT PEKIN

The princes of Europe have found out a manner of rewarding their
subjects who have behaved well, by presenting them with about two
yards of blue ribbon, which is worn over the shoulder. They who are
honoured with this mark of distinction are called knights, and the king
himself is always the head of the order. This is a very frugal method
of recompensing the most important services, and it is very fortunate
for kings that their subjects are satisfied with such trifling rewards.
Should a nobleman happen to lose his leg in battle, the king presents
him with two yards of ribbon, and he is paid for the loss of his limb.
Should an ambassador spend all his paternal fortunes in supporting the
honour of his country abroad, the king presents him with two yards of
ribbon, which is to be considered as an equivalent to his estate. In
short, while a European king has a yard of blue or green ribbon left,
he need be under no apprehension of wanting statesmen, generals, and
soldiers.

I cannot sufficiently admire those kingdoms in which men with large
patrimonial estates are willing thus to undergo real hardships for
empty favours. A person, already possessed of a competent fortune,
who undertakes to enter the career of ambition feels many real
inconveniences from his station, while it procures him no real
happiness that he was not possessed of before. He could eat, drink, and
sleep before he became a courtier, as well, perhaps better, than when
invested with his authority.

What real good, then, does an addition to a fortune already sufficient
procure? Not any. Could the great man, by having his fortune increased,
increase also his appetite, then precedence might be attended with real
amusement. But, on the contrary, he finds his desire for pleasure often
lessen as he takes pains to be able to improve it; and his capacity of
enjoyment diminishes as his fortune happens to increase.

Instead, therefore, of regarding the great with envy, I generally
consider them with some share of compassion. I look upon them as a set
of good-natured, misguided people, who are indebted to us, and not to
themselves, for all the happiness they enjoy. For our pleasure, and
not their own, they sweat under a cumbrous heap of finery; for our
pleasure, the hackneyed train, the slow-parading pageant, with all
the gravity of grandeur, moves in review; a single coat, or a single
footman, answers all the purposes of the most indolent refinement as
well; and those who have twenty may be said to keep one for their own
pleasure, and the other nineteen for ours. So true is the observation
of Confucius, "That we take greater pains to persuade others that we
are happy than in endeavouring to think so ourselves."

But though this desire of being seen, of being made the subject of
discourse, and of supporting the dignities of an exalted station,
be troublesome to the ambitious, yet it is well that there are men
thus willing to exchange ease and safety for danger and a ribbon. We
lose nothing by their vanity, and it would be unkind to endeavour to
deprive a child of its rattle.... Adieu.


_The Folly of the Recluse_

FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO HINGPO, HIS SON

Books, my son, while they teach us to respect the interests of others,
often make us unmindful of our own; while they instruct the youthful
reader to grasp at social happiness, he grows miserable in detail. I
dislike, therefore, the philosopher, who describes the inconveniences
of life in such pleasing colours that the pupil grows enamoured of
distress, longs to try the charms of poverty, meets it without dread,
nor fears its inconveniences till he severely feels them.

A youth who has thus spent his life among books, new to the world,
and unacquainted with man but by philosophic information, may be
considered as a being whose mind is filled with the vulgar errors of
the wise. He first has learned from books, and then lays it down as
a maxim that all mankind are virtuous or vicious in excess; warm,
therefore, in attachments, and steadfast in enmity, he treats every
creature as a friend or foe. Upon a closer inspection of human nature
he perceives that he should have moderated his friendship, and softened
his severity; he finds no character so sanctified that has not its
failings, none so infamous but has somewhat to attract our esteem; he
beholds impiety in lawn, and fidelity in fetters.

He now, therefore, but too late, perceives that his regards should have
been more cool, and his hatred less violent; that the truly wise seldom
court romantic friendships with the good, and avoid, if possible, the
resentment even of the wicked; every movement gives him fresh instances
that the bonds of friendship are broken if drawn too closely, and that
those whom he has treated with disrespect more than retaliate the
injury; at length, therefore, he is obliged to confess that he has
declared war upon the vicious half of mankind, without being able to
form an alliance among the virtuous to espouse his quarrel.

Our book-taught philosopher, however, is now too far advanced to
recede; and though poverty be the just consequence of the many
enemies his conduct has created, yet he is resolved to meet it
without shrinking. "Come, then, O Poverty! for what is there in thee
dreadful to the Wise? Temperance, Health, and Frugality walk in thy
train; Cheerfulness and Liberty are ever thy companions. Come, then,
O Poverty, while kings stand by, and gaze with admiration at the true
philosopher's resignation!"

The goddess appears, for Poverty ever comes at the call; but, alas!
he finds her by no means the charming figure books and his warm
imagination had painted. All the fabric of enthusiasm is at once
demolished, and a thousand miseries rise upon its ruins, while
Contempt, with pointing finger, is foremost in the hideous procession.

The poor man now finds that he can get no kings to look at him while
he is eating; he finds that, in proportion as he grows poor, the world
turns its back upon him, and gives him leave to act the philosopher
in all the majesty of solitude. Spleen now begins to take up the man;
not distinguishing in his resentments, he regards all mankind with
detestation, and commencing man-hater, seeks solitude to be at liberty
to rail.

It has been said that he who retires to solitude is either a beast
or an angel. The censure is too severe, and the praise unmerited;
the discontented being who retires from society is generally some
good-natured man, who has begun life without experience, and knew not
how to gain it in his intercourse with mankind. Adieu.


_On Mad Dogs_

FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM

Indulgent Nature seems to have exempted this island from many of those
epidemic evils which are so fatal in other parts of the world. But
though the nation be exempt from real evils, think not, my friend, that
it is more happy on this account than others. They are afflicted, it is
true, with neither famine nor pestilence, but then there is a disorder
peculiar to the country, which every season makes strange ravages
among them; it spreads with pestilential rapidity, and infects almost
every rank of people; what is still more strange, the natives have no
name for this peculiar malady, though well enough known to foreign
physicians by the name of epidemic terror.

A season is never known to pass in which the people are not visited
by this cruel calamity in one shape or another, seemingly different,
though ever the same. The people, when once infected, lose their relish
for happiness, saunter about with looks of despondence, ask after the
calamities of the day, and receive no comfort but in heightening each
other's distress. A dread of mad dogs is the epidemic terror which now
prevails, and the whole nation is at present actually groaning under
the malignity of its influence.

It is pleasant enough for a neutral being like me, who have no share in
these ideal calamities, to mark the stages of this national disease.
The terror at first feebly enters with a little dog that had gone
through a neighbouring village, that was thought to be mad by several
who had seen him. The next account comes that a mastiff ran through
a certain town, and had bit five geese, which immediately ran mad,
foamed at the bill, and died in great agonies soon after. Then comes an
affecting history of a little boy bit in the leg, and gone down to be
dipped in the salt water; when the people have sufficiently shuddered
at that, they are next congealed with a frightful account of a man who
was said lately to have died from a bite he had received some years
before.

My landlady, a good-natured woman, but a little credulous, waked me
some mornings ago, before the usual hour, with horror and astonishment
in her looks; she desired me, if I had any regard for my safety, to
keep within, for a few days ago so dismal an accident had happened as
to put all the world upon their guard. A mad dog down in the country,
she assured me, had bit a farmer who, soon becoming mad, ran into his
own yard, and bit a fine brindled cow; the cow quickly became as mad
as the man, began to foam at the mouth, and raising herself up, walked
about on her hind legs, sometimes barking like a dog, and sometimes
attempting to talk like the farmer.

Were most stories of this nature thoroughly examined, it would be
found that numbers of such as have been said to suffer were in no way
injured; and that of those who have been actually bitten, not one in a
hundred was bit by a mad dog. Such accounts in general, therefore, only
serve to make the people miserable by false terrors.

Of all the beasts that graze the lawn or hunt the forest, a dog is
the only animal that, leaving his fellows, attempts to cultivate the
friendship of man; no injuries can abate his fidelity; no distress
induce him to forsake his benefactor; studious to please and fearing to
offend, he is still an humble, steadfast dependent, and in him alone
fawning is not flattery. How unkind, then, to torture this faithful
creature who has left the forest to claim the protection of man! How
ungrateful a return to the trusty animal for all his services! Adieu.


_On Elections_

FROM LIEN CHI ALTANGI TO FUM HOAM

The English are at present employed in celebrating a feast, which
becomes general every seventh year: the parliament of the nation being
then dissolved, and another appointed to be chosen. This solemnity
falls infinitely short of our Feast of the Lanterns in magnificence and
splendour; it is also surpassed by others of the East in unanimity and
pure devotion; but no festival in the world can compare with it for
eating.

To say the truth, eating seems to make a grand ingredient in all
English parties of zeal, business, or amusement. When a church is to be
built, or an hospital endowed, the directors assemble, and instead of
consulting upon it, they eat upon it, by which means the business goes
forward with success. When the poor are to be relieved, the officers
appointed to dole out public charity assemble and eat upon it. Nor has
it ever been known that they filled the bellies of the poor till they
had satisfied their own. But in the election of magistrates the people
seem to exceed all bounds.

What amazes me is that all this good living no way contributes to
improve their good humour. On the contrary, they seem to lose their
temper as they lose their appetites; every morsel they swallow, and
every glass they pour down, serves to increase their animosity.
Upon one of these occasions I have actually seen a bloody-minded
man-milliner sally forth at the head of a mob, to face a desperate
pastrycook, who was general of the opposite party.

I lately made an excursion to a neighbouring village, in order to be
a spectator of the ceremonies practised. Mixing with the crowd, I was
conducted to the hall where the magistrates are chosen; but what tongue
can describe this scene of confusion! The whole crowd seemed equally
inspired with anger, jealousy, politics, patriotism, and punch. I
remarked one figure that was carried up by two men upon this occasion.
I at first began to pity his infirmities as natural, but soon found the
fellow so drunk that he could not stand; another made his appearance
to give his vote, but though he could stand, he actually lost the use
of his tongue, and remained silent; a third, who, though excessively
drunk, could both stand and speak, being asked the candidate's name
for whom he voted, could be prevailed upon to make no other answer but
"Tobacco and brandy!" In short, an election-hall seems to be a theatre,
where every passion is seen without disguise; a school where fools may
readily become worse, and where philosophers may gather wisdom. Adieu.


_Opinions and Anecdotes_

The most ignorant nations have always been found to think most highly
of themselves.

It may sound fine in the mouth of a declaimer, when he talks of
subduing our appetites, of teaching every sense to be content with
a bare sufficiency, and of supplying only the wants of nature; but
is there not more satisfaction in indulging these appetites, if with
innocence and safety, than in restraining them? Am I not better pleased
in enjoyment, than in the sullen satisfaction of thinking that I can
live without enjoyment?

When five brethren had set upon the great Emperor Guisong, alone
with his sabre he slew four of them; he was struggling with the
fifth, when his guards, coming up, were going to cut the conspirator
into a thousand pieces. "No, no!" cried the emperor, with a placid
countenance. "Of all his brothers he is the only one remaining; at
least let one of the family be suffered to live, that his aged parents
may have somebody left to feed and comfort them."

It was a fine saying of Nangfu the emperor, who, being told that his
enemies had raised an insurrection in one of the distant provinces,
said: "Come, then, my friends, follow me, and I promise you that
we shall quickly destroy them." He marched forward, and the rebels
submitted upon his approach. All now thought that he would take the
most signal revenge, but were surprised to see the captives treated
with mildness and humanity. "How!" cries his first minister, "is this
the manner in which you fulfil your promise? Your royal word was given
that your enemies should be destroyed, and behold, you have pardoned
all, and even caressed some!" "I promised," replied the emperor, with a
generous air, "to destroy my _enemies_; I have fulfilled my word, for
see, they are enemies no longer; I have made _friends_ of them."

Well it were if rewards and mercy alone could regulate the
commonwealth; but since punishments are sometimes necessary, let them
at least be rendered terrible, by being executed but seldom; and let
justice lift her sword rather to terrify than revenge.




HENRY HALLAM

Introduction to the Literature of Europe

  The full volume of this work, "Introduction to the Literature of
  Europe in the Fifteenth, Sixteenth, and Seventeenth Centuries,"
  was published about 1837, and is a vast accumulation of facts,
  but is lacking in organic unity, in vigour, and vitality.
  Hallam's spelling of proper names has been followed throughout
  this epitome. (Henry Hallam, biography; see Vol. XI, p. 255.)


_I.--Before the Fifteenth Century_

The establishment of the barbarian nations on the ruins of the Roman
Empire in the West was followed by an almost universal loss of
classical learning. The last of the ancients, and one who forms a link
with the Middle Ages, is Boëthius, whose "Consolation of Philosophy"
mingles a Christian sanctity with the lessons of Greek and Roman sages.
But after his death, in 524, the downfall of learning and eloquence was
inconceivably rapid, and a state of general ignorance, except here and
there within the ecclesiastical hierarchy, lasted for five centuries.

The British islands led the way in the slow restoration of knowledge.
The Irish monasteries, in the seventh century, were the first to send
out men of comparative eminence, and the Venerable Bede, in the eighth
century, was probably superior to any other man whom the world at that
time possessed. Then came the days when Charlemagne laid in his vast
dominions the foundations of learning.

In the tenth century, when England and Italy alike were in the most
deplorable darkness, France enjoyed an age of illumination, and a
generation or two later we find many learned and virtuous churchmen
in Germany. But it is not until the twelfth century that we enter
on a new epoch in European literary history, when universities were
founded, modern languages were cultivated, the study of Roman law was
systematically taken up, and a return was made to a purer Latinity.

Next, we observe the rise of the scholastic theology and philosophy,
with their strenuous attempt at an alliance between faith and
reason. The dry and technical style of these enquiries, their minute
subdivisions of questions, and their imposing parade of accuracy,
served indeed to stimulate subtlety of mind, but also hindered the
revival of polite literature and the free expansion of the intellect.

Dante and Petrarch are the morning stars of the modern age. They lie
outside our period, and we must pass them over with a word. It is
sufficient to notice that, largely by their influence, we find, in
the year 1400, a national literature existing in no less than seven
European languages--three in the Spanish peninsula, the French, the
Italian, the German, and the English.


_II.--The Fifteenth Century_

We now come to a very important event--the resuscitation of the study
of Greek in Italy. In 1423, Giovanni Aurispa, of Sicily, brought
over two hundred manuscripts from Greece, including Plato, Plotinus,
Diodorus, Pindar, and many other classics. Manuel Chrysoloras, teacher
of Greek in Florence, had trained a school of Hellenists; and copyists,
translators, and commentators set to work upon the masterpieces of
the ancient world. We have good reason to doubt whether, without the
Italians of those times, the revival of classical learning would ever
have occurred. The movement was powerfully aided by Nicolas V., pope
in 1447, who founded the Vatican library, supported scholars, and
encouraged authors.

Soon after 1450, the art of printing began to be applied to the
purposes of useful learning, and Bibles, classical texts, collections
of fables; and other works were rapidly given to the world. The
accession to power of Lorenzo de Medici in 1464 marks the revival of
native Italian genius in poetry, and under his influence the Platonic
academy, founded by his grandfather Cosmo, promoted a variety of
studies. But we still look in vain to England for either learning or
native genius. The reign of Edward IV. is one of the lowest points in
our literary annals.

In France, the "Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles," 1486, and the poems of
Villon, 1489, show a marked advance in style. Many French "mysteries,"
or religious dramas, belong to this period, and this early form of the
dramatic art had also much popularity in Germany and in Italy. Literary
activity, in France and in Germany, had become regularly progressive by
the end of the century.

Two men, Erasmus and Budæus, were now devoting incessant labour, in
Paris, to the study of Greek; and a gleam of light broke out even in
England, where William Grocyn began, in 1491, to teach that language in
Oxford. On his visit to England, in 1497, Erasmus was delighted with
everything he found, and gave unbounded praise to the scholarship of
Grocyn, Colet, Linacre, and the young Thomas More.

The fifteenth century was a period of awakening and of strenuous
effort. But if we ask what monuments of its genius and erudition still
receive homage, we can give no very triumphant answer. Of the books
then written, how few are read now!


_III.--The Sixteenth Century (1500-1550)_

In the early years of this century the press of Aldus Manutius, who had
settled in Venice in 1489, was publishing many texts of the classics,
Greek as well as Latin.

It was at this time that the regular drama was first introduced into
Europe. "Calandra," the earliest modern comedy, was presented at
Venice in 1508, and about the same time the Spanish tragi-comedy of
"Calisto and Melibœa" was printed. The pastoral romance, also, made
its appearance in Portugal; and the "Arcadia," 1502, by the Italian
Sannazaro, a work of this class, did much to restore the correctness
and elegance of Italian prose. Peter Bembo's "Asolani," 1505, a
dialogue on love, has also been thought to mark an epoch in Italian
literature. At the same time, William Dunbar, with his "Thistle and
Rose," 1503, and his allegorical "Golden Targe," was leading the van of
British poetry.

The records of voyages of discovery begin to take a prominent place.
The old travels of Marco Polo, as well as those of Sir John Mandeville,
and the "Cosmography" of Ptolemy, had been printed in the previous
century; but the stupendous discoveries of the close of that age now
fell to be told. The voyages of Cadamosto, a Venetian, in Western
Africa, appeared in 1507; and those of Amerigo Vespucci, entitled
"Mondo Nuovo," in the same year. An epistle of Columbus himself had
been printed in Germany about 1493.

Leo X., who became pope in 1513, placed men of letters in the most
honourable stations of his court, and was the munificent patron of
poets, scholars, and printers. Rucellai's "Rosmunda," a tragedy played
before Leo in 1515, was the earliest known trial of blank verse. The
"Sophonisba" of Trissino, published in 1524, a play written strictly
on the Greek model, had been acted some years before. Two comedies by
Ariosto were presented about 1512.

Meanwhile, the printing press became very active in Paris, Basle,
and Germany, chiefly in preparing works for the use of students in
universities. But in respect of learning, we have the testimony of
Erasmus that neither France, nor Germany, stood so high as England. In
Scotland, boys were being taught Latin in school; and the translation
of the Æneid by Gawin Douglas, completed about 1513, shows, by its
spirit and fidelity, the degree of scholarship in the north. The only
work of real genius which England can claim in this age is the "Utopia"
of Sir Thomas More, first printed in 1516.

Erasmus diffuses a lustre over his age, which no other name among the
learned supplies. About 1517, he published an enlarged edition of his
"Adages," which displays a surprising intimacy with Greek and Roman
literature. The most remarkable of them, in every sense, are those
which reflect with excessive bitterness on kings and priests. Erasmus
knew that the regular clergy were not to be conciliated, and resolved
to throw away the scabbard; and his invectives against kings proceeded
from a just sense of the oppression of Europe in that age by ambitious
and selfish rulers.

We are now brought by necessary steps to the great religious revolution
known as the Reformation, with which we are only concerned in so far
as it modified the history of literature. In all his dispute, Luther
was sustained by a prodigious force of popular opinion; and the German
nation was so fully awakened to the abuses of the Church that, if
neither Luther nor Zwingli had ever been born, a great religious schism
was still at hand. Erasmus, who had so manifestly prepared the way for
the new reformers, continued, beyond the year 1520, favourable to their
cause. But some of Luther's tenets he did not and could not approve;
and he was already disgusted by that intemperance of language which
soon led him to secede entirely from the Protestant side.

The laws of synchronism bring strange partners together, and we
may pass at once from Luther to Ariosto, whose "Orlando Furioso"
was printed at Ferrara in 1516. Ariosto has been, after Homer, the
favourite poet of Europe. His grace and facility, his clear and rapid
stream of language, his variety of invention, left him no rival.

No edition of "Amadis de Gaul" has been proved to exist before that
printed at Seville in 1519. This famous romance was translated into
French between 1540 and 1557, and into English by Munday in 1619.

A curious dramatic performance was represented in Paris in 1511, and
published in 1516. It is entitled "Le Prince des Sots et la Mère
sotte," by Peter Gringore; its chief aim was to ridicule the Pope and
the court of Rome. Hans Sachs, a shoemaker of Nuremberg, produced his
first carnival play in 1517. The English poets Hawes and Skelton fall
within this period.

From 1520 to 1550, Italy, where the literature of antiquity had been
first cultivated, still retained her superiority in the fine perception
of its beauties, but the study was proceeding also elsewhere in Europe.
Few books of that age give us more insight into its literary history
and the public taste than the "Circeronianus" of Erasmus, against which
Scaliger wrote with unmannerly invective. The same period of thirty
years is rich with poets, among whom are the Spanish Mendoza, the
Portuguese Ribero, Marot in France, many hymn-writers in Germany; and
in England, Wyatt and Surrey. At this time also, Spain was forming its
national theatre, chiefly under the influence of Lope de Rueda and of
Torres Naharro, the inventor of Spanish comedy. The most celebrated
writer of fiction in this age is Rabelais, than whom few have greater
fertility of language and imagination.


_IV.--The Sixteenth Century (1550-1600)_

Montaigne's "Essays," which first appeared at Bordeaux in 1580, make
an epoch in literature, being the first appeal from the academy to the
haunts of busy and idle men; and this delightful writer had a vast
influence on English and French literature in the succeeding age.

Turning now to the Italian poets of our period, we find that most of
them are feeble copyists of Petrarch, whose style Bembo had rendered so
popular. Casa, Costanzo, Baldi, Celio Magno, Bernardino Rota, Gaspara
Stampa, Bernado Tasso, father of the great Tasso, Peter Aretin, and
Firenzuola, flourished at this time. The "Jerusalem" of Torquato Tasso
is the great epic of modern times; it is read with pleasure in almost
every canto, though the native melancholy of Tasso tinges all his poem.
It was no sooner published than it was weighed against the "Orlando
Furioso," and Europe has not yet agreed which scale inclines.

Spanish poetry is adorned by Luis Ponce de Leon, born in 1527, a
religious and mystical lyric poet. The odes of Herrera have a lyric
elevation and richness of phrase, derived from the study of Pindar
and of the Old Testament. Castillejo, playful and witty, attempted to
revive the popular poetry, and ridiculed the imitators of Petrarch.

The great Camoens had now arisen in Portugal; his "Lusiad," written
in praise of the Lusitanian people, is the mirror of his loving,
courageous, generous, and patriotic heart. Camoens is the chief
Portuguese poet in this age, and possibly in every other.

This was an age of verse in France. Pierre Ronsard, Amadis Jamyn his
pupil, Du Bartas, Pibrac, Desportes, and many others, were gradually
establishing the rules of metre, and the Alexandrine was displacing the
old verse of ten syllables.

Of German poetry there is little to say; but England had Lord Vaux's
short pieces in "The Paradise of Dainty Devices"; Sackville, with his
"Induction" to the "Mirrour of Magistrates," 1559; George Gascoyne,
whose "Steel Glass," 1576, is the earliest English satire; and, above
all, Spenser, whose "Shepherd's Kalendar" appeared in 1579. This work
was far more natural and more pleasing than the other pastorals of
the age. Shakespeare's "Venus and Adonis," and his "Rape of Lucrece,"
were published in 1593-94. Sir Philip Sidney, Raleigh, Lodge, Breton,
Marlowe, Green, Watson, Davison, Daniel, and Michael Drayton were now
writing poems, and Drake has a list of more than two hundred English
poets of this time.

The great work of the period is, however, the "Faëry Queen," the first
three books of which were published in 1590, and the last three in
1596. Spenser excels Ariosto in originality, force, and variety of
character, and in depth of reflection, but especially in the poetical
cast of feeling.

Of dramatic literature, between 1550 and 1600, we have many Italian
plays by Groto, Decio da Orto, and Tasso. The pastoral drama
originating with Agostino Beccari in 1554, reached its highest
perfection in Tasso's "Aminta," which was followed by Guarini's "Pastor
Fido."

Lope de Vega is the great Spanish dramatist of this time. His
astonishing facility produced over two thousand original dramas,
of which three hundred have been preserved. Jodelle, the father of
the French theatre, presented his "Cléopatre" in 1552. In 1598 the
foundations were laid of the Comédie Française.

In England, Sackville led the way with his tragedy of "Gorboduc,"
played at Whitehall before Elizabeth in 1562. In 1576, the first
public theatre was erected in Blackfriars. Several young men of talent
appeared, Marlowe, Peele, Greene, Kyd, and Nash, as the precursors
of Shakespeare; and in 1587, being then twenty-three years old, the
greatest of dramatists settled in London, and several of his plays had
been acted before the close of the century.

Among English prose writings of this time may be mentioned Ascham's
"Schoolmaster," 1570, Puttenham's "Art of English Poesie," 1586, and,
as a curiosity of affectation, Lilly's "Euphues." But the first good
prose-writer is Sir Philip Sidney, whose "Arcadia" appeared in 1590;
and the finest master of prose in the Elizabethan period is Hooker. The
first book of the "Ecclesiastical Polity" is one of the masterpieces of
English eloquence.


_V.--The Seventeenth Century (1600-1650)_

The two great figures in philosophy of this period are Bacon and
Descartes. At its beginning the higher philosophy had been little
benefited by the labours of any modern enquirer. It was become, indeed,
no strange thing to question the authority of Aristotle, but his
disciples could point with scorn at the endeavours made to supplant it.

In the great field of natural jurisprudence, the most eminent name
in this period is that of Hugo Grotius, whose famous work "De Jure
Belli et Pacis" was published in Paris in 1625. This treatise made an
epoch in the philosophical, and, we might almost say, in the political
history of Europe.

In the history of poetry, between 1600 and 1650, we have the Italians
Marini, Tassoni, and Chiabrera, the last being the founder of a school
of lyric poetry known as "Pindaric." Among Spanish poets are Villegas
and Gongora; in France, Malherbe, Regnier, Racan, Maynard, Voiture,
and Sarrazin; Opitz, in Germany, was the founder of German poetic
literature; and this, the golden age of Dutch literature, included the
poets Spiegel, Hooft, Cats, and Vondel. The English poets of these
fifty years are very numerous, but for the most part not well known.
Spenser was imitated by Phineas and Giles Fletcher. Sir John Denham,
Donne, Crashaw, Cowley, Daniel, Michael Drayton, William Browne, and
Sir William Davenant wrote at this time, to which also belong the
sonnets of Shakespeare. Drummond of Hawthornden, Carew, Ben Jonson,
Wither, Habington, Suckling, and Herrick, were all in the first half
of the seventeenth century. John Milton was born in 1609, and in 1634
wrote "Comus," which was published in 1637; "Lycidas," the "Allegro"
and "Penseroso," the "Ode on the Nativity," and Milton's sonnets
followed.

The Italian drama was weak at this period, but in Spain Lope de Vega
and Calderon were at the height of their glory. In France, Corneille's
"Mélite," his first play, was produced in 1629, and was followed by
"Clitandre," "La Veuve," "Medea," "Cid," and others. The English
drama was exceedingly popular, and the reigns of James and Charles
were the glory of our theatre. Shakespeare--the greatest name in all
literature--Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Shirley,
Heywood, Webster, and many other dramatists contributed to its fame.

In prose writings, Italian and Spanish works of this time show a great
decline in taste; but in France, the letters of the moralist Balzac and
of Voiture, from 1625, have ingenuity and sprightliness. English prose
writings of the period include the works of Knolles, Raleigh, Daniel,
Bacon, Milton, Clarendon; Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," Earle's
"Microcosmographia" and Overbury's "Characters."

Fiction was represented by "Don Quixote," of which the first part was
published in 1605--almost the only Spanish book which is popularly read
in every country; by the French heroic romance, and by the English
Godwin's "Man in the Moon."


_VI.--The Seventeenth Century (1650-1700)_

Among the greatest writers of this period are Bossuet and Pascal, in
theology; Gassendi, Malebranche, Spinoza, and Locke, in philosophy; and
Cumberland, Puffendorf, La Rochefoucauld, and La Bruyère, in morals.
Leibnitz wrote on jurisprudence before he passed on to philosophy, and
the same subject was treated also by Godefroy, Domat, and Noodt.

Italian poetry had now improved in tone. Filicaja, a man of serious
and noble spirit, wrote odes of deep patriotic and religious feeling.
Guidi, a native of Pavia, raised himself to the highest point that any
lyric poet of Italy has attained. Spain and Portugal were destitute
of poets; but in France La Fontaine, Boileau, Benserade, Chaulieu,
Segrais, Deshoulières, and Fontenelle, were famous. In England at this
time there were Waller, Milton, Butler, and Dryden, as well as Marvell
and other minor poets.

Neither Italy nor Spain was now producing dramatic works of any
importance, but it was very different in France. Corneille continued
to write for the stage, and Racine's first play, the "Andromaque," was
presented in 1667. This was followed by "Britannicus," "Bérénice,"
"Mithridate," "Iphigénie," and others. Racine's style is exquisite; he
is second only to Virgil among all poets. Molière, the French writer
whom his country has most uniformly admired, began with "L'Étourdi" in
1653, and his pieces followed rapidly until his death, in 1673. The
English Restoration stage was held by Dryden, Otway, Southern, Lee,
Congreve, Wycherley, Farquhar, and Vanbrugh.

In prose literature Italy is deficient; but this period includes the
most distinguished portion of the great age in France, the reign of
Louis XIV. Bossuet, Malebranche, Arnauld, and Pascal are among the
greatest of French writers.

English writing now became easier and more idiomatic, sometimes even to
the point of vulgarity. The best masters of prose were Cowley, Evelyn,
Dryden, and Walton in the "Complete Angler."

Among novels of the period may be named those of Quevedo in Spain;
of Scarron, Bergerac, Perrault, and Hamilton, in France; and the
"Pilgrim's Progress"--for John Bunyan may pass for the father of our
novelists--in England. Swift's "Tale of a Tub," than which Rabelais has
nothing superior, was indeed not published till 1704, but was written
within the seventeenth century.




WILLIAM HAZLITT

Lectures on the English Poets

  William Hazlitt, critic and essayist, was born on April 10,
  1778, and was educated in London for the Unitarian ministry. But
  his talents for painting and for writing diverted him from that
  career, and soon, though he showed great promise as a painter,
  he devoted himself to authorship, contributing largely to the
  "Morning Chronicle," the "Examiner," and the "Edinburgh Review."
  His wide, genial interests, his ardent temperament, and his
  admirable style, have given Hazlitt a high place among English
  critics. He is no pedant or bookworm; he is always human, always
  a man of the world. His "Characters of Shakespeare's Plays,"
  1817, gave him a reputation which was confirmed by his "Lectures
  on the English Poets," delivered next year at the Surrey
  Institute. Further lectures, on the English comic writers and on
  the Elizabethan dramatists, followed. His essays, on all kinds
  of subjects, are collected in volumes under various titles. All
  are the best of reading. Hazlitt's later works include "Liber
  Amoris," 1823; "Spirit of the Age," 1825, consisting of character
  studies; and the "Life of Napoleon" (Hazlitt's hero), 1828-30.
  The essayist was twice married, and died on September 18, 1830.


_What Is Poetry?_

The best general notion which I can give of poetry is that it is the
natural impression of any object or event by its vividness exciting
an involuntary movement of imagination and passion, and producing,
by sympathy, a certain modulation of the voice or sounds expressing
it. Poetry is the universal language which the heart holds with
Nature and itself. He who has a contempt for poetry cannot have much
respect for himself or for anything else. It is not a mere frivolous
accomplishment; it has been the study and delight of mankind in all
ages.

Nor is it found only in books; wherever there is a sense of beauty,
or power, or harmony, as in a wave of the sea, or in the growth of a
flower, there is poetry in its birth. It is not a branch of authorship;
it is the "stuff of which our life is made." The rest is "mere
oblivion," for all that is worth remembering in life is the poetry of
it. If poetry is a dream, the business of life is much the same. If it
is a fiction, made up of what we wish things to be, and fancy that they
are because we wish them so, there is no other or better reality.

The light of poetry is not only a direct, but also a reflected light,
that, while it shows us the object, throws a sparkling radiance on all
around it; the flame of the passions communicated to the imagination
reveals to us, as with a flash of lightning, the inmost recesses of
thought, and penetrates our whole being. Poetry represents forms
chiefly as they suggest other forms; feelings, as they suggest forms,
or other feelings. Poetry puts a spirit of life and motion into the
universe. It describes the flowing, not the fixed. The poetical
impression of any object is that uneasy, exquisite sense of beauty or
power that cannot be contained within itself, that is impatient of all
limit; that--as flame bends to flame--strives to link itself to some
other image of kindred beauty or grandeur, to enshrine itself, as it
were, in the highest forms of fancy, and to relieve the aching sense
of pleasure by expressing it in the boldest manner, and by the most
striking examples of the same quality in other instances.

As in describing natural objects poetry impregnates sensible
impressions with the forms of fancy, so it describes the feelings of
pleasure or pain by blending them with the strongest movements of
passion and the most striking forms of Nature. Tragic poetry, which is
the most impassioned species of it, strives to carry on the feeling to
the utmost point of sublimity or pathos by all the force of comparison
or contrast, loses the sense of present suffering in the imaginary
exaggeration of it, exhausts the terror or pity by an unlimited
indulgence of it, and lifts us from the depths of woe to the highest
contemplations of human life.

The use and end of poetry, "both at the first and now, was and is to
hold the mirror up to Nature," seen through the medium of passion and
imagination, not divested of that medium by means of literal truth or
abstract reason. Those who would dispel the illusions of imagination,
to give us their drab-coloured creation in their stead, are not very
wise. It cannot be concealed, however, that the progress of knowledge
and refinement has a tendency to clip the wings of poetry. The province
of the imagination is principally visionary, the unknown and undefined;
we can only fancy what we do not know. There can never be another
Jacob's dream. Since that time the heavens have gone farther off, and
grown astronomical.

Poetry combines the ordinary use of language with musical expression.
As there are certain sounds that excite certain movements, and the song
and dance go together, so there are, no doubt, certain thoughts that
lead to certain tones of voice, or modulations of sound. The jerks, the
breaks, the inequalities and harshnesses of prose are fatal to the flow
of a poetical imagination, as a jolting road disturbs the reverie of an
absent-minded man. But poetry makes these odds all even. The musical in
sound is the sustained and continuous; the musical in thought is the
sustained and continuous also. An excuse may be made for rhyme in the
same manner.


_Chaucer and Spenser_

These are two out of the four greatest English poets; but they were
both much indebted to the early poets of Italy, and may be considered
as belonging, in some degree, to that school. Spenser delighted in
luxurious enjoyment; Chaucer in severe activity of mind. Spenser was
the most romantic and visionary of all great poets; Chaucer the most
practical, the most a man of business and the world.

Chaucer does not affect to show his power over the reader's mind, but
the power which his subject has over his own. The readers of Chaucer's
poetry feel more nearly what the persons he describes must have felt,
than perhaps those of any other poet. There is no artificial, pompous
display; but a strict parsimony of the poet's materials, like the
rude simplicity of the age in which he lived. His words point as an
index to the objects, like the eye or finger. There were none of the
commonplaces of poetic diction in his time, no reflected lights of
fancy, no borrowed roseate tints; he was obliged to inspect things
narrowly for himself, so that his descriptions produce the effect of
sculpture.

His descriptions of natural scenery possess a characteristic excellence
which may be termed gusto. They have a local truth and freshness which
give the very feeling of the air, the coolness or moisture of the
ground. Inanimate objects are thus made to have a fellow-feeling in the
interest of the story, and render the sentiment of the speaker's mind.

It was the same trust in Nature and reliance on his subject which
enabled Chaucer to describe the grief and patience of Griselda and the
faith of Constance. Chaucer has more of this deep, internal, sustained
sentiment than any other writer, except Boccaccio. In depth of simple
pathos and intensity of conception, never swerving from his subject, I
think no other writer comes near him, not even the Greek tragedians.

The poetry of Chaucer has a religious sanctity about it, connected
with the manners and superstitions of the age. It has all the spirit
of martyrdom. It has also all the extravagance and the utmost
licentiousness of comic humour, equally arising out of the manners of
the time. He excelled in both styles, and could pass at will from the
one to the other; but he never confounded the two styles together.

Of all the poets, Spenser is the most poetical. There is an
originality, richness, and variety in his allegorical personages and
fictions which almost vie with the splendours of the ancient mythology.
His poetry is all fairyland; he paints Nature not as we find it, but
as we expected to find it, and fulfils the delightful promise of our
youth. His ideas, indeed, seem more distinct than his perceptions. The
love of beauty, however, and not of truth, is the moving principle of
his mind; and he is guided in his fantastic delineations by no rule but
the impulse of an inexhaustible imagination.

Some people will say that Spenser's poetry may be very fine, but that
they cannot understand it, on account of the allegory. They are afraid
of the allegory. This is very idle. If they do not meddle with the
allegory, the allegory will not meddle with them. Without minding it at
all, the whole is as plain as a pikestaff.

Spenser is the poet of our waking dreams, and he has invented not
only a language, but a music of his own for them. The undulations are
infinite, like those of the waves of the sea; but the effect is still
the same, lulling the senses into a deep oblivion of the jarring noises
of the world, from which we have no wish ever to be recalled.


_Shakespeare and Milton_

Those arts which depend on individual genius and incommunicable power
have always leaped at once from infancy to manhood, from the first
rude dawn of invention to their meridian height and dazzling lustre,
and have in general declined ever after. Homer, Chaucer, Spenser,
Shakespeare, Dante, and Ariosto--Milton alone was of a later age, and
not the worse for it--Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo, Correggio,
Cervantes, and Boccaccio, the Greek sculptors and tragedians, all lived
near the beginning of their arts, perfected, and all but created them.
They rose by clusters, never so to rise again.

The four greatest names in English poetry are almost the four first we
come to--Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. There are no others
that can really be put into competition with these. Of these four,
Chaucer excels as the poet of manners, or of real life; Spenser as the
poet of romance; Shakespeare as the poet of Nature, in the largest use
of the term; and Milton as the poet of morality. Chaucer describes
things as they are; Spenser, as we wish them to be; Shakespeare, as
they would be; and Milton, as they ought to be. The characteristic of
Chaucer is intensity; of Spenser, remoteness; of Milton, elevation; of
Shakespeare, everything.

The peculiarity of Shakespeare's mind was its generic quality; its
power of communication with all other minds, so that it contained a
universe of thought and feeling within itself. He was just like any
other man, but he was like all other men. He was the least of an
egotist that it was possible to be. He was nothing in himself; but he
was all that others were, or that they could become. His genius shone
equally on the evil and on the good, on the wise and the foolish, the
monarch and the beggar. The world of spirits lay open to him, like
the world of real men and women; and there is the same truth in his
delineations of the one as of the other. Each of his characters is as
much itself, and as absolutely independent of the rest, as well as
of the author, as if they were living persons, not fictions of the
mind. His plays alone are properly expressions of the passions, not
descriptions of them.

Chaucer's characters are narrative; Shakespeare's, dramatic; Milton's,
epic. In Chaucer we perceive a fixed essence of character. In
Shakespeare there is a continual composition and decomposition of
its elements, a fermentation of every particle in the whole mass, by
its alternate affinity or antipathy to other principles which are
brought in contact with it. Milton took only a few simple principles of
character, and raised them to the utmost conceivable grandeur.

The passion in Shakespeare is full of dramatic fluctuation. In Chaucer
it is like the course of a river--strong, full, and increasing; but
in Shakespeare it is like the sea, agitated this way and that, and
loud-lashed by furious storms. Milton, on the other hand, takes only
the imaginative part of passion, that which remains after the event,
and abstracts it from the world of action to that of contemplation.

The great fault of a modern school of poetry [the Lake poets] is that
it would reduce poetry to a mere effusion of natural sensibility; or,
what is worse, would divest it both of imaginary splendour and human
passion, to surround the meanest objects with the morbid feelings and
devouring egotism of the writers' own minds. Milton and Shakespeare did
not so understand poetry. They gave a more liberal interpretation both
to Nature and art. They did not do all they could to get rid of the one
and the other, to fill up the dreary void with the moods of their own
minds.

Shakespeare's imagination is of the same plastic kind as his conception
of character or passion. Its movement is rapid and devious, and unites
the most opposite extremes. He seems always hurrying from his subject,
even while describing it; but the stroke, like the lightning's, is
as sure as it is sudden. His language and versification are like the
rest of him. He has a magic power over words; they come winged at his
bidding, and seem to know their places. His language is hieroglyphical.
It translates thoughts into visible images. He had an equal genius for
comedy and tragedy; and his tragedies are better than his comedies,
because tragedy is better than comedy. His female characters are the
finest in the world. Lastly, Shakespeare was the least of a coxcomb of
anyone that ever lived, and much of a gentleman.

Shakespeare discovers in his writings little religious enthusiasm, and
an indifference to personal reputation; in these respects, as in every
other, he formed a direct contrast to Milton. Milton's works are a
perpetual invocation to the muses, a hymn to Fame. He had his thoughts
constantly fixed on the contemplation of the Hebrew theocracy, and of a
perfect commonwealth; and he seized the pen with a hand warm from the
touch of the ark of faith. The spirit of the poet, the patriot, and the
prophet vied with each other in his breast. He thought of nobler forms
and nobler things than those he found about him. He strives hard to say
the finest things in the world, and he does say them. In Milton there
is always an appearance of effort; in Shakespeare, scarcely any.

Milton has borrowed more than any other writer, and exhausted every
source of imitation; yet he is perfectly distinct from every other
writer. The power of his mind is stamped on every line. He describes
objects of which he could only have read in books with the vividness of
actual observation.

Milton's blank verse is the only blank verse in the language, except
Shakespeare's, that deserves the name of verse. The sound of his lines
is moulded into the expression of the sentiment, almost of the very
image.


_Dryden and Pope_

These are the great masters of the artificial style of poetry, as the
four poets of whom I have already treated were of the natural, and they
have produced a kind and degree of excellence which existed equally
nowhere else.

Pope was a man of exquisite faculties and of the most refined taste;
he was a wit and critic, a man of sense, of observation, and the
world. He was the poet not of Nature, but of art. He saw Nature only
dressed by art; he judged of beauty by fashion; he sought for truth
in the opinions of the world; he judged of the feelings of others by
his own. His muse never wandered with safety but from his library to
his grotto, or from his grotto into his library back again. That which
was the nearest to him was the greatest; the fashion of the day bore
sway in his mind over the immutable laws of Nature. He had none of the
enthusiasm of poetry; he was in poetry what the sceptic is in religion.
Yet within this narrow circle how much, and that how exquisite, was
contained! The wrong end of the magnifier is held to everything, but
still the exhibition is highly curious. If I had to choose, there are
one or two persons--and but one or two--that I should like to have been
better than Pope!

Dryden was a bolder and more various versifier than Pope; he had
greater strength of mind, but he had not the same delicacy of feeling.
Pope describes the thing, and goes on describing his own descriptions,
till he loses himself in verbal repetitions; Dryden recurs to the
object often, and gives us new strokes of character as well as of his
pencil.


_Thomson and Cowper_

Thomson is the best of our descriptive poets; the colours with which
he paints still seem wet. Nature in his descriptions is seen growing
around us, fresh and lusty as in itself. He puts his heart into his
subject, and it is for this reason that he is the most popular of all
our poets. But his verse is heavy and monotonous; it seems always
labouring uphill.

Cowper had some advantages over Thomson, particularly in simplicity
of style, in a certain precision of graphical description, and in a
more careful choice of topics. But there is an effeminacy about him
which shrinks from and repels common and hearty sympathy. He shakes
hands with Nature with a pair of fashionable gloves on; he is delicate
to fastidiousness, and glad to get back to the drawing-room and the
ladies, the sofa, and the tea-urn. He was a nervous man; but to be a
coward is not the way to succeed either in poetry, in war, or in love.
Still, he is a genuine poet, and deserves his reputation.


_Robert Burns_

Burns was not like Shakespeare in the range of his genius; but there is
something of the same magnanimity, directness, and unaffected character
about him. He was as much of a man, not a twentieth part as much of a
poet, as Shakespeare. He had an eye to see, a heart to feel--no more.
His pictures of good fellowship, of social glee, of quaint humour, are
equal to anything; they come up to Nature, and they cannot go beyond
it. His strength is not greater than his weakness; his virtues were
greater than his vices. His virtues belonged to his genius; his vices
to his situation.

Nothing could surpass Burns's love-songs in beauty of expression and in
true pathos, except some of the old Scottish ballads themselves. There
is in these a still more original cast of thought, a more romantic
imagery; a closer intimacy with Nature, a more infantine simplicity of
manners, a greater strength of affection, "thoughts that often lie too
deep for tears." The old English ballads are of a gayer turn. They are
adventurous and romantic; but they relate chiefly to good living and
good fellowship, to drinking and hunting scenes.


_Some Contemporary Poets_

Tom Moore is heedless, gay, and prodigal of his poetical wealth.
Everything lives, moves, and sparkles in his poetry, while, over all,
love waves his purple light. His levity at last oppresses; his variety
cloys, his rapidity dazzles and distracts the sight.

Lord Byron's poetry is as morbid as Moore's is careless and dissipated.
His passion is always of the same unaccountable character, at once
violent and sullen, fierce and gloomy. It is the passion of a mind
preying upon itself, and disgusted with, or indifferent to, all other
things. There is nothing less poetical or more repulsive. But still
there is power; and power forces admiration. In vigour of style and
force of conception he surpasses every writer of the present day.

Walter Scott is deservedly the most popular of living poets. He differs
from his readers only in a greater range of knowledge and facility of
expression. The force of his mind is picturesque rather than moral. He
is to the great poet what an excellent mimic is to a great actor.

Mr. Wordsworth is the most original poet now living. His poetry is not
external, but internal; he furnishes it from his own mind, and is his
own subject. He is the poet of mere sentiment. Many of the "Lyrical
Ballads" are of inconceivable beauty, of perfect originality and
pathos. But his powers have been mistaken by the age. He cannot form a
whole. He has not the constructive faculty. His "Excursion" is a proof
of this; the line labours, the sentiment moves slowly, but the poem
stands stock-still.

The Lake school of poetry had its origin in the French Revolution,
or rather in the sentiments and opinions which produced that event.
The world was to be turned topsy-turvy, and poetry was to share its
fate. The paradox they set out with was that all things are by Nature
equally fit subjects for poetry, or rather, that the meanest and most
unpromising are best. They aimed at exciting attention by reversing
the established standards of estimation in the world. An adept in
this school of poetry is jealous of all excellence but his own. He is
slow to admire anything admirable, feels no interest in what is most
interesting to others, no grandeur in anything grand. He sees nothing
but himself and the universe. His egotism is, in some respects, a
madness. The effect of this has been perceived as something odd; but
the cause or principle has never been traced to its source before. The
proofs are to be found throughout many of the poems of Mr. Southey, Mr.
Coleridge, and Mr. Wordsworth.

I may say of Mr. Coleridge that he is the only person I ever knew who
answered to the idea of a man of genius. But his "Ancient Mariner" is
the only work that gives an adequate idea of his natural powers. In
it, however, he seems to "conceive of poetry but as a drunken dream,
reckless, careless, and heedless of past, present, and to come."

I have thus gone through my task. I have felt my subject sinking from
under me as I advanced, and have been afraid of ending in nothing.
The interest has unavoidably decreased at almost every step of the
progress, like a play that has its catastrophe in the first or second
act. This, however, I could not help.




OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table

  In 1857 Oliver Wendell Holmes (see Vol. V, p. 87) leapt into fame
  by his "Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table" papers in the "Atlantic
  Monthly," then edited by Lowell. His "Professor" and "Poet"
  series of papers followed, with hardly less success. In these
  writings a robust idealism, humour, fancy, and tenderness are so
  gently mixed as to amount to genius.


_Every Man His Own Boswell_

"All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly called 'facts.'
They are the brute beasts of the intellectual domain. Who does not know
fellows that always have an ill-conditioned fact or two that they lead
after them into decent company like so many bulldogs, ready to let them
slip at every ingenious suggestion, or convenient generalisation, or
pleasant fancy? I allow no 'facts' at this table."

I continued, for I was in the talking vein, "This business of
conversation is a very serious matter. There are men that it weakens
one to talk with an hour more than a day's fasting would do. They are
the talkers that have what may be called jerky minds. After a jolting
half-hour with one of these jerky companions talking with a dull friend
affords great relief. It is like taking the cat in your lap after
holding a squirrel."

"Do not dull people bore you?" said one of the lady boarders.

"Madam," said I, "all men are bores except when we want them. Talking
is like playing on the harp; there is as much in laying the hand on the
strings to stop the vibrations as in twanging them to bring out the
music. There is this, too, about talking," I continued; "it shapes our
thoughts for us; the waves of conversation roll them as the surf rolls
the pebbles on the shore. Writing or printing is like shooting with a
rifle; you may hit your reader's mind, or miss it, but talking is like
playing at a mark with the pipe of an engine--if it is within reach,
and you have time enough, you can't help hitting it."

The company agreed that this last illustration was of superior
excellence.


_The Ageing of Ideas_

"I want to make a literary confession now, which I believe nobody
has made before me. I never wrote a 'good' line in my life, but the
moment after it was written it seemed a hundred years old. The rapidity
with which ideas grow old in our memories is in a direct ratio to the
squares of their importance. A great calamity, for instance, is as old
as the trilobites an hour after it has happened. It stains backward
through all the leaves we have turned over in the book of life, before
its blot of tears or of blood is dry on the page we are turning."

I wish I had not said all this then and there. The pale schoolmistress,
in her mourning dress, was looking at me with a wild sort of
expression; and all at once she melted away from her seat like an image
of snow; a sling shot could not have brought her down better. God
forgive me!


_The Confusion of Personality_

"We must remember that talking is one of the fine arts--the noblest,
the most important, and the most difficult. It is not easy at the best
for two persons talking together to make the most of each other's
thoughts, there are so many of them."

The company looked as if they wanted an explanation.

"When John and Thomas, for instance, are talking together," I
continued, "it is natural that among the six there should be more or
less confusion and misapprehension."

Our landlady turned pale. No doubt she thought there was a screw
loose in my intellect, and that it involved the probable loss of a
boarder. Everybody looked up, and the old gentleman opposite slid the
carving-knife to one side, as it were, carelessly.

"I think," I said, "I can make it plain that there are at least six
personalities distinctly to be recognised as taking part in that
dialogue between John and Thomas.


THREE JOHNS

  1. The real John; known only to his Maker.

  2. John's ideal John; never the real one, and often very unlike
  him.

  3. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, nor John's John, but
  often very unlike either.


THREE THOMASES

  1. The real Thomas.

  2. Thomas's ideal Thomas.

  3. John's ideal Thomas.

"It follows that until a man can be found who knows himself as his
Maker knows him, or who sees himself as others see him, there must be
at least six persons engaged in every dialogue between two. No wonder
two disputants often get angry when there are six of them talking and
listening all at the same time."

A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was made by
a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits near me at
table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegetable, little known to
boarding-houses, was on its way to me _viâ_ this unlettered Johannes.
He appropriated the three that remained in the basket, remarking that
there was just one apiece for him. I convinced him that his practical
inference was hasty and illogical--but in the meantime he had eaten the
peaches.


_More on Books_

"Some of you boarders ask me why I don't write a novel, or something
of that kind. Well, there are several reasons against it. In the first
place I should tell all my secrets, and I maintain that verse is the
proper medium for such revelations. Again, I am terribly afraid I
should show up all my friends, and I am afraid all my friends would not
bear showing up very well. And sometimes I have thought I might be too
dull to write such a story as I should wish to write. And, finally, I
think it is very likely I _shall_ write a story one of these days.

"I saw you smiled when I spoke about the possibility of my being too
dull to write a good story. When one arrives at the full and final
conclusion that he or she is really dull, it is one of the most
tranquillising and blessed convictions that can enter a mortal's mind.

"How sweetly and honestly one said to me the other day, 'I hate
books!' I did not recognise in him inferiority of literary taste
half so distinctly as I did simplicity of character, and fearless
acknowledgment of his inaptitude for scholarship. In fact, I think
there are a great many who read, with a mark to keep their place, that
really 'hate books,' but never had the wit to find it out, or the
manliness to own it."


_Dual Consciousness_

I am so pleased with my boarding-house that I intend to remain here,
perhaps for years.

"Do thoughts have regular cycles? Take this: All at once a conviction
flashes through us that we have been in the same precise circumstances
as at the present instant once or many times before."

When I mentioned this the Schoolmistress said she knew the feeling
well, and didn't like to experience it; it made her think she was a
ghost, sometimes.

The young fellow whom they call John said he knew all about it. He
had just lighted a cheroot the other day when a tremendous conviction
came over him that he had done just that same thing ever so many times
before.

"How do I account for it? Well, some think that one of the hemispheres
of the brain hangs fire, and the small interval between the perceptions
of the nimble and the sluggish half seems an indefinitely long period,
and therefore the second perception appears to be the copy of another,
ever so old."


_The Race of Life_

"Nothing strikes one more in the race of life than to see how many give
out in the first half of the course. 'Commencement day' always reminds
me of the start of the 'Derby.' Here we are at Cambridge and a class is
first 'graduating.' Poor Harry! he was to have been there, but he has
paid forfeit.

"_Ten years gone._ First turn in the race. A few broken down; two or
three bolted. 'Cassock,' a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest.
'Meteor' has pulled up.

"_Twenty years._ Second corner turned. 'Cassock' has dropped from the
front, and 'Judex,' an iron-grey, has the lead. But look! how they have
thinned out! Down flat--five--six--how many? They will not get up again
in this race be very sure!

"_Thirty years._ Third corner turned. 'Dives,' bright sorrel, ridden
by the fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast--is getting
to be the favourite with many. But who is that other one that now
shows close up to the front? Don't you remember the quiet brown colt
'Asteroid,' with the star in his forehead? That is he; he is one of the
sort that lasts. 'Cassock' is now taking it easily in a gentle trot.

"_Forty years._ More dropping off, but places much as before.

"_Fifty years._ Race over. All that are on the course are coming
in at a walk; no more running. Who is ahead? Ahead? What! and the
winning-post a slab of white or gray stone standing out from that turf
where there is no more jockeying, or straining for victory! Well, the
world marks their places in its betting-book; but be sure that these
matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how!

"I will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested by
looking at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is given
the name of Pearly Nautilus.


THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

    This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign,
        Sails the unshadowed main--
      The venturous bark that flings
      On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
      In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
        And coral reefs lie bare,
    Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

    Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
        Wrecked is the ship of pearl!
      And every chambered cell,
      Where its dim, dreaming life was wont to dwell,
      As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
        Before thee lies revealed--
    Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

    Year after year beheld the silent toil
        That spread his lustrous coil;
      Still, as the spiral grew,
      He left the past year's dwelling for the new,
      Stole with soft step its shining archway through,
        Built up its idle door,
    Stretched in his last found home, and knew the old no more.

    Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
        Child of the wandering sea,
      Cast from her lap forlorn!
      From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
      Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
        While on mine ear it rings,
    Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

    Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
        As the swift seasons roll!
      Leave thy low-vaulted past!
      Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
      Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
        Till thou at length art free,
    Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!


_Sensibility and Scholarship_

"Every person's feelings have a front-door and a side-door by which
they may be entered. The front-door is on the street. The side-door
opens at once into the sacred chambers. There is almost always at
least one key to this side-door. This is carried for years hidden in a
mother's bosom. Be very careful to whom you entrust one of these keys
of the side-door. Some of those who come in at the side-door have a
scale of your whole nervous system, and can play on all the gamut of
your sensibilities in semi-tones. Married life is the school in which
the most accomplished artists in this department are found. Be very
careful to whom you give the side-door key.

"The world's great men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its
great scholars great men. The Hebrew patriarchs had small libraries,
if any; yet they represent to our imaginations a very complete idea of
manhood, and I think if we could ask Abraham to dine with us men of
letters next Saturday we should feel honoured by his company."


_A Growing Romance_

"I should like to make a few intimate revelations relating especially
to my early life, if I thought you would like to hear them."

The schoolmistress turned in her chair and said, "If we should _like_
to hear them--we should _love_ to."

So I drew my chair a shade nearer her, and went on to speak of voices
that had bewitched me.

"I wish you could hear my sister's voice," said the schoolmistress.

"If it is like yours it must be a pleasant one," said I.

Lately she has been walking early and has brought back roses in her
cheeks. I love the damask rose best of all flowers.

Our talk had been of trees, and I had been comparing the American
and the English elms in the walk we call the Mall. "Will you walk
out and look at those elms with me after breakfast?" I said to the
schoolmistress.

I am not going to tell lies about it, and say that she blushed. On the
contrary, she turned a little bit pale, but smiled brightly, and said,
"Yes, with pleasure." So she went to fetch her bonnet, and the old
gentleman opposite followed her with his eyes, and said he wished he
was a young fellow.

"This is the shortest way," she said, as we came to the corner.

"Then we won't take it," said I.

When we reached the school-room door the damask roses were so much
heightened in colour by exercise that I felt sure it would be useful to
her to take a stroll like this every morning.

I have been low-spirited and listless lately. It is coffee, I think. I
notice that I tell my secrets too easily when I am downhearted. There
are inscriptions on our hearts never seen except at dead low-tide.
And there is a woman's footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest
ocean-buried inscription.

I am not going to say which I like best, the seashore or the mountains.
The one where your place is, is the best for you; but this difference
there is--you can domesticate mountains. The sea is feline. It licks
your feet, its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will
crack your bones and eat you for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam
from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains have a grand,
stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous
intelligence.

"If I thought I should ever see the Alps!" said the schoolmistress.

"Perhaps you might some time or other," I said.

"It is not very likely," she answered.

_Tableau._ Chamouni. Mont Blanc in full view. Figures in the foreground,
two of them standing apart; one of them a gentleman--oh--ah--yes!--the
other a lady, leaning on his shoulder. (The reader will understand this
was an internal, private, subjective diorama, seen for one instant on
the background of my own consciousness.)

       *       *       *       *       *

I can't say just how many walks she and I had taken together. I found
the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favourable on her
health. I am afraid I did the greater part of the talking. Better too
few words from the woman we love than too many; while she is silent,
Nature is working for her; while she talks she works for herself. Love
is sparingly soluble in the words of men, therefore they speak much of
it; but one syllable of woman's speech can dissolve more of it than a
man's heart can hold.


_Nature's Patient Advance_

I don't know anything sweeter than the leaking in of Nature through all
the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. You heap a million tons
of hewn rocks on a square mile or so of earth which was green once.
The trees look down from the hill-tops and ask each other, as they
stand on tiptoe, "What are these people about?" And the small herbs
look up and whisper back, "We will go and see." So the small herbs pack
themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the night
wind steals to them and whispers, "Come with me." Then they go softly
with it into the great city--one to a cleft in the pavement, one to a
spout on the roof, one to a seam in the marble over a rich gentleman's
bones, and one to the grave without a stone, where nothing but a man
is buried--and there they grow, looking down on the generations of men
from mouldy roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements,
looking out through iron cemetery railings.

Listen to them when there is only a light breath stirring, and you will
hear them saying to each other, "Wait awhile." The words run along the
telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads leading
from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and the trees
repeat in low murmurs, "Wait awhile." By and by the flow of life in the
streets ebbs, and the old leafy inhabitants--the smaller tribes always
in front--saunter in, one by one, very careless seemingly, but very
tenacious, until they swarm so that the great stones gape from each
other with the crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be
picked out of the granite to find them food. At last the trees take up
their solemn line of march, and never rest until they have camped in
the market-place. Wait long enough, and you will find an old doting
oak hugging in its yellow underground arms a huge worn block that
was the cornerstone of the State-house. Oh, so patient she is, this
imperturbable Nature!


_The Long Path_

It was in talking of life that the schoolmistress and I came nearest
together. I thought I knew something about that. The schoolmistress had
tried life, too. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater
than all the living pageant that passes before it. This was one of
them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptised her. Yet as I looked
upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness that was
often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we
talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every
shifting lineament were made for love.

I never addressed a word of love to the schoolmistress in the course of
these pleasant walks. It seemed as if we talked of everything but love
on that particular morning. There was, perhaps, a little more timidity
and hesitancy on my part than I have commonly shown among our people
at the boarding-house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the
breakfast-table; but somehow I could not command myself just then so
well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a passage to Liverpool in
the steamer which was to leave at noon--with the condition of being
released if circumstances occurred to detain me. The schoolmistress
knew nothing about this, of course, as yet.

It was on the Common that we were walking. The boulevard of the
Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different
directions. One of these runs across the whole length of the Common. We
called it the "long path," and were fond of it.

I felt very weak indeed--though of a tolerably robust habit--as we came
opposite to the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to
speak twice, without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got
out the question, "Will you take the long path with me?" "Certainly,"
said the schoolmistress, "with much pleasure." "Think," I said, "before
you answer. If you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it
that we are to part no more."

The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow
had struck her. One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard
by--the one you may still see close by the gingko-tree. "Pray sit
down," I said.

"No, no," she answered softly; "I will walk the _long path_ with you!"

The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm-in-arm,
about the middle of the long path, and said very charmingly to us,
"Good-morning, my dears!"




LA BRUYÈRE

Characters

  Jean de la Bruyère was born in Paris, in August, 1645. He studied
  law and became a barrister, but at the age of twenty-eight gave
  up that profession, which did not agree with his tendencies
  to meditation and his scrupulous mind. In 1673, he bought the
  office of Treasurer of the Finances, and led an independent and
  studious life. In 1684, he became a tutor to the Duc de Bourbon,
  grandson of the great Condé, and continued to reside in the Condé
  household until his death in 1696. In the "Caractères," which
  first appeared in 1688, La Bruyère has recorded his impressions
  of men. In 1687 the manuscript was handed to Michallet, a
  publisher in whose shop La Bruyère spent many hours every week.
  "Will you print this?" asked the author. "I don't know whether
  it will be to your advantage; but should it prove a success,
  the money will be for my dear friend, your little daughter."
  The sale of the book produced over $40,000. When La Bruyère was
  elected a member of the French Academy, his enemies declared
  that the "Characters" consisted of satirical portraits of
  leading personalities, and "keys" to the portraits were widely
  circulated. The pen sketches, however, are not only applicable to
  that period, but to every age.


_I.--On Men and Books_

All has been said, and one comes too late after the seven thousand
years during which men have existed--and thought. All that one can do
is to think and speak rightly, without attempting to force one's tastes
and feelings upon others.

Mediocrity in poetry, music, painting, and oratory is unbearable.

There is in art a certain degree of perfection, as there is in Nature
an ideal point of matureness. To go beyond, or to remain below that
degree is faulty.

The ability of a writer consists mainly in giving good definitions and
apt descriptions. The superiority of Moses, Homer, Plato, Virgil,
and Horace resides in the beauty of their expressions and images. One
has to express the truth to write in a natural, powerful, and refined
manner.

It has taken centuries for men to return to the ideal of the ancients
and to all that is simple and natural.

We feed on the classics and the able, modern authors. Then, when we
become authors ourselves, we ill-use our masters, like those children
who, strengthened by the milk they have suckled, beat their nurses.

Read your works to those who are able to criticise and appreciate them.
A good and careful writer often finds that the expression he had so
long looked for was most simple and natural, and one which ought to
have occurred to him at once and without effort.

The pleasure there is in criticising takes from us the joy of being
moved by that which is really beautiful.

Arsène, from the top of his mind, looks down upon humanity; and, owing
to the distance from which he sees men, is almost frightened at their
smallness. He is so filled with his own sublime thoughts that he hardly
finds time to deliver a few precious oracles.

Théocrine knows things which are rather useless; his ideas are always
strange, his memory always at work. He is a supercilious dreamer, and
always seems to laugh at those whom he considers as his inferiors. I
read my book to him; he listens. Afterwards, he speaks to me about his
own book. What does he think of mine? I told you so before: he speaks
to me of his own work!

What an amazing difference there is between a beautiful book and a
perfect book!

When a book elevates your mind, and inspires you with noble thoughts,
you require nothing else to judge it; it is a good and masterly work.

The fools do not understand what they read. The mediocre think they
understand thoroughly. Great minds do not always understand every page
of a book; they think obscure that which is obscure, and clear that
which is clear. The pedantic find obscure that which is not, and refuse
to understand that which is perfectly clear.

Molière would have been a perfect writer had he only avoided jargon and
barbarisms, and written more purely.

Ronsard had in him enough good and bad to form great disciples in prose
and verse.

Corneille, at his best, is original and inimitable, but he is uneven.
He had a sublime mind, and has written a few verses which are among the
best ever written.

Racine is more human. He has imitated the Greek classics, and in his
tragedies there is simplicity, clearness, and pathos.

Corneille paints men as they ought to be; Racine paints them as they
are. Corneille is more moral; Racine is more natural. The former, it
seems, owes much to Sophocles; the latter, to Euripides.

How is it that people at the theatre laugh so freely, and yet are
ashamed to weep? Is it less natural to be moved by all that is worthy
of pity than to burst out laughing at all that is ridiculous? Is it
that we consider it weak to cry, especially when the cause of our
emotion is an artificial one? But the cause of our laughter at the
theatre is also artificial. Some persons think it is as childish to
laugh excessively as to sob.

Not only should plays not be immoral; they should be elevating.

Logic is the art of convincing oneself of some truth. Eloquence is a
gift of the soul which makes one capable of conquering the hearts and
minds of the listeners and of making them believe anything one pleases.

He who pays attention only to the taste of his own century thinks more
of himself than of his writings. One should always aim at perfection.
If our contemporaries fail to do us justice, posterity may do so.

Horace and Boileau have said all this before. I take your word for it;
but may I not, after them, "think a true thought," which others will
think after me?

There are more tools than workers, and among the latter, more bad than
good ones.

There is, in this world, no task more painful than that of making a
name for oneself; we die before having even sketched our work. It
takes, in France, much firmness of purpose and much broadmindedness
to be indifferent to public functions and offices, and to consent to
remain at home and do nothing.

Hardly anyone has enough merit to assume that part in a dignified
manner, or enough brains to fill the gap of time without what is
generally called business.

All that is required is a better name for idleness; and that
meditation, conversation, reading, and repose should be called work.

You tell me that there is gold sparkling on Philémon's clothes. So
there is on the clothes at the draper's. He is covered with the most
gorgeous fabrics. I can see those fabrics in the shops. But the
embroidery and ornaments on Philémon's clothes further increase their
magnificence. If so, I praise the embroiderer's workmanship. If someone
asks him the time, he takes from his pocket a jewelled watch; the hilt
of his sword is made of onyx; he displays a dazzling diamond on his
finger and wears all the curious and pretty trifles of fashion and
vanity. You arouse my interest at last. I ought to see those precious
things. Send me the clothes and jewels of Philémon; I don't require to
see _him_.

It is difficult to tell the hero from the great man at war. Both have
military virtues. However, the former is generally young, enterprising,
gifted, self-controlled even in danger, and courageous; the latter has
much judgment, foresees events, and is endowed with much ability and
experience. Perhaps one might say that Alexander was only a hero and
that Cæsar was a great man.

Ménippe is a bird adorned with feathers which are not his own. He
has nothing to say; he has no feelings, no thoughts. He repeats what
others have said, and uses their ideas so instinctively that he
deceives himself, and is his first victim. He often believes that he
is expressing his own thoughts, while he is only an echo of someone
whom he has just left. He believes childishly that the amount of wit he
possesses is all that man ever possessed. He therefore looks like a man
who has nothing to desire.


_II.--On Women and Wealth_

From the age of thirteen to the age of twenty-one, a girl wishes she
were beautiful; afterwards she wishes she were a man.

An unfaithful woman is a woman who has ceased to love.

A light-hearted woman is a woman who already loves another.

A fickle woman is a woman who does not know whether she loves or not,
and who does not know what or whom she loves.

An indifferent woman is a woman who loves nothing.

There is a false modesty which is vanity; a false glory which is
light-mindedness; a false greatness which is smallness; a false virtue
which is hypocrisy; a false wisdom which is prudishness.

Why make men responsible for the fact that women are ignorant? Have
any laws or decrees been issued forbidding them to open their eyes, to
read, to remember what they have read, and to show that they understood
it in their conversations and their works? Have they not themselves
decided to know little or nothing, because of their physical weakness,
or the sluggishness of their minds; because of the time their beauty
requires; because of their light-mindedness which prevents them from
studying; because they have only talent and genius for needlework or
house-managing; or because they instinctively dislike all that is
earnest and demands some effort?

Women go to extremes. They are better or worse than men.

Women go farther than men in love; but men make better friends.

It is because of men that women dislike one another.

It is nothing for a woman to say what she does not mean; it is easier
still for a man to say all what he thinks.

Time strengthens the ties of friendship and loosens those of love.

There is less distance between hatred and love than between dislike and
love.

One can no more decide to love for ever than decide never to love at
all.

One comes across men who irritate one by their ridiculous expressions,
the strangeness and unfitness of the words they use. Their weird jargon
becomes to them a natural language. They are delighted with themselves
and their wit. True, they have some wit, but one pities them for having
so little of it; and, what is more, one suffers from it.

Arrias has read and seen everything, and he wants people to know it.
He is a universal man; he prefers to lie rather than keep silent or
appear ignorant about something. The subject of the conversation is the
court of a certain northern country. He at once starts talking, and
speaks of it as if he had been born in that country; he gives details
on the manners and customs, the women and the laws: he tells anecdotes
and laughs loudly at his own wit. Someone ventures to contradict him
and proves to him that he is not accurate in his statements. Arrias
turns to the interrupter: "I am telling nothing that is not exact," he
says. "I heard all those details from Sethon, ambassador of France to
that court. Sethon returned recently; I know him well, and had a long
conversation with him on this matter." Arrias was resuming his story
with more confidence than ever, when one of the guests said to him: "I
am Sethon, and have just returned from my mission."

Cléante is a most honest man. His wife is the most reasonable person
in the world. Both make everybody happy wherever they go, and it were
impossible to find a more delightful and refined couple. Yet they
separate to-morrow!

At thirty you think about making your fortune; at fifty you have not
made it; when you are old, you start building, and you die while the
painters are still at work.

Numberless persons ruin themselves by gambling, and tell you coolly
they cannot live without gambling. What nonsense! Would it be allowed
to say that one cannot live without stealing, murdering, or leading a
riotous existence?

Giton has a fresh complexion, and an aggressive expression. He is
broad-shouldered and corpulent. He speaks with confidence. He blows his
nose noisily, spits to a great distance, and sneezes loudly. He sleeps
a great deal, and snores whenever he pleases. When he takes a walk with
his equals he occupies the centre; when he stops, they stop; when he
advances again, they do the same. No one ever interrupts him. He is
jovial, impatient, haughty, irritable, independent. He believes himself
witty and gifted. He is rich.

Phédon has sunken eyes. He is thin, and his cheeks are hollow. He
sleeps very little. He is a dreamer, and, although witty, looks stupid.
He forgets to say what he knows, and when he does speak, speaks badly.
He shares the opinion of others; he runs, he flies to oblige anyone; he
is kind and flattering. He is superstitious, scrupulous, and bashful.
He walks stealthily, speaks in a low voice, and takes no room. He can
glide through the densest crowd without effort. He coughs, and blows
his nose inside his hat, and waits to sneeze until he is alone. He is
poor.


_III.--On Men and Manners_

Paris is divided into a number of small societies which are like so
many republics. They have their own customs, laws, language, and even
their own jokes.

One grows up, in towns, in a gross ignorance of all that concerns the
country. City-bred men are unable to tell hemp from flax, and wheat
from rye. We are satisfied as long as we can feed and dress.

When we speak well of a man at court, we invariably do so for two
reasons: firstly, in order that he may hear that we spoke well of him;
secondly, in order that he may speak well of us in his turn.

To be successful and to secure high offices there are two ways: the
high-road, on which most people pass; and the cross-road, which is the
shorter.

The youth of a prince is the origin of many fortunes.

Court is where joys are evident, but artificial; where sorrows are
concealed, but real.

A slave has one master; an ambitious man has as many as there are
persons who may be useful to him in his career.

With five or six art terms, people give themselves out as experts in
music, painting, and architecture.

The high opinions people have of the great and mighty is so blind, and
their interest in their gestures, features, and manners so general,
that if the mighty were only good, the devotion of the people to them
would amount to worship.

Lucile prefers to waste his life as the protégé of a few aristocrats
than to live on familiar terms with his peers.

It is advisable to say nothing of the mighty. If you speak well of
them, it is flattery. It is dangerous to speak ill of them during their
lifetime, and it is cowardly to do so after they are dead.

Life is short and annoying. We spend life wishing.

When life is wretched, it is hard to bear; when it is happy, it is
dreadful to lose it. The one alternative is as bad as the other.

Death occurs only once, but makes itself felt at every moment of our
life. It is more painful to fear it than to suffer it.

There are but three events for man: birth, life, and death. He does not
realise his birth, he suffers when he dies, and he forgets to live.

We seek our happiness outside ourselves. We seek it in the opinions of
men whom we know are flatterers, and who lack sincerity. What folly!
Most men spend half their lives making the other half miserable.

It is easier for many men to acquire one thousand virtues than to get
rid of one defect.

It is as difficult to find a conceited man who believes himself really
happy as to discover a modest man who thinks himself too unhappy.

The birch is necessary to children. Grown-up men need a crown, a
sceptre, velvet caps and fur-lined robes. Reason and justice devoid of
ornaments would not be imposing or convincing. Man, who is a mind, is
led by his eyes and his ears!


_IV.--On Customs and Religion_

Fashion in matters of food, health, taste and conscience is utterly
foolish. Game is at present out of fashion, and condemned as a
food. It is to-day a sin against fashion to be cured of the ague by
blood-letting.

The conceited man thinks every day of the way in which he will be able
to attract attention on the following day. The philosopher leaves the
matter of his clothes to his tailor. It is just as childish to avoid
fashion as to follow its decrees too closely.

Fashion exists in the domain of religion.

There have been young ladies who were virtuous, healthy and pious, who
wished to enter a convent, but who were not rich enough to take in a
wealthy abbey the vows of poverty.

How many men one sees who are strong and righteous, who would never
listen to the entreaties of their friends, but who are easily
influenced and corrupted by women.

I would like to hear a sober, moderate, chaste, righteous man declare
that there is no God. At least he would be speaking in a disinterested
manner. But there is no such man to be found.

The fact that I am unable to prove that God does not exist establishes
for me the fact that God does exist.

Atheism does not exist. If there were real atheists, it would merely
prove that there are monsters in this world.

Forty years ago I didn't exist, and it was not within my power to
be born. It does not depend upon me who now exist to be no more.
Consequently, I began being and am going on being, thanks to something
which is beyond me, which will last after me, which is mightier than I
am. If that something is not God, pray tell me what it is.

Everything is great and worthy of admiration in Nature.

O you vain and conceited man, make one of these worms which you
despise! You loathe toads; make a toad if you can!

Kings, monarchs, potentates, sacred majesties, have I given you all
your supreme names? We, mere men, require some rain for our crops or
even some dew; make some dew, send to the earth a drop of water!

A certain inequality in the destinies of men, which maintains order and
obedience, is the work of God. It suggests a divine law.

If the reader does not care for these "characters," it will surprise
me; if he does care for them, it will also surprise me.




WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR

Imaginary Conversations

  Walter Savage Landor, writer, scholar, poet, and, it might
  almost be said, quarreller, said of his own fame, "I shall dine
  late, but the dining-room will be well lighted, the guests few
  and select." A powerful, turbulent spirit, he attracted great
  men. Emerson, Browning, Dickens, and Swinburne travelled to sit
  at his feet, and he knew Byron, Shelley, Wordsworth, Lamb, and
  Southey. Born at Warwick, on January 30, 1775, he was dismissed
  from Rugby School at the age of fifteen, and from Oxford at the
  age of nineteen; was estranged from his father; several times
  left the wife whom he had married for her golden hair, and spent
  the last years of his life, lonely but lionised, at Florence. To
  the last--which came on September 17, 1864--he wrote both prose
  and verse. Landor appears, to the average appreciator of English
  literature, an interesting personality rather than a great
  writer, though his epic, "Gebir" (1798), and his tragedy, "Count
  Julian" (1812), like some of his minor verse, contain passages
  of great beauty. But it was in the "Imaginary Conversations,"
  written between 1821 and 1829, and first sampled by the public
  in review form in 1823, that he endowed the English language
  with his most permanent achievement. Nearly 150 of these
  "Conversations" were written in all, and we epitomise here five
  of the best-known.


_I.--Peter the Great and Alexis_

PETER: And so, after flying from thy father's house, thou hast returned
again from Vienna. After this affront in the face of Europe, thou
darest to appear before me?

ALEXIS: My emperor and father! I am brought before your majesty not at
my own desire.

PETER: I believe it well. What hope hast thou, rebel, in thy flight to
Vienna?

ALEXIS: The hope of peace and privacy; the hope of security, and, above
all things, of never more offending you.

PETER: Didst thou take money?

ALEXIS: A few gold pieces. Hitherto your liberality, my father, hath
supplied my wants of every kind.

PETER: Not of wisdom, not of duty, not of spirit, not of courage, not
of ambition. I have educated thee among my guards and horses, among
my drums and trumpets, among my flags and masts. I have rolled cannon
balls before thee over iron plates; I have shown thee bright new arms,
bayonets, and sabres. I have myself led thee forth to the window when
fellows were hanged and shot; and I have made thee, in spite of thee,
look steadfastly upon them, incorrigible coward! Thy intention, I know,
is to subvert the institutions it has been the labour of my lifetime to
establish. Thou hast never rejoiced at my victories.

ALEXIS: I have rejoiced at your happiness and your safety.

PETER: Liar! Coward! Traitor! When the Polanders and the Swedes fell
before me, didst thou congratulate me? Didst thou praise the Lord of
Hosts? Wert thou not silent and civil and low-spirited?

ALEXIS: I lamented the irretrievable loss of human life, I lamented
that the bravest and noblest were swept away the first, that order
was succeeded by confusion, and that your majesty was destroying the
glorious plans you alone were capable of devising.

PETER: Of what plans art thou speaking?

ALEXIS: Of civilising the Muscovites. The Polanders in parts were
civilised; the Swedes more than any other nation.

PETER: Civilised, forsooth? Why the robes of the metropolitan, him at
Upsal, are not worth three ducats. But I am wasting my words. Thine are
tenets that strike at the root of politeness and sound government.

ALEXIS: When I hear the God of Mercy invoked to massacres, and thanked
for furthering what He reprobates and condemns--I look back in vain on
any barbarous people for worse barbarism.

PETER: Malignant atheist! Am I Czar of Muscovy, and hear discourse on
reason and religion--from my own son, too? No, by the Holy Trinity!
thou art no son of mine. Unnatural brute, I have no more to do with
thee. Ho there! Chancellor! What! Come at last! Wert napping, or
counting thy ducats?

CHANCELLOR: Your majesty's will, and pleasure!

PETER: Is the senate assembled?

CHANCELLOR: Every member, sire.

PETER: Conduct this youth with thee, and let them judge him; thou
understandest?

CHANCELLOR: Your majesty's commands are the breath of our nostrils.

PETER: If these rascals are amiss, I will try my new cargo of Livonian
hemp upon 'em.

CHANCELLOR (_returning_): Sire! Sire!

PETER: Speak, fellow! Surely they have not condemned him to death
without giving themselves time to read the accusation, that thou comest
back so quickly.

CHANCELLOR: No, sire! Nor has either been done.

PETER: Then thy head quits thy shoulders.

CHANCELLOR: O sire! he fell.

PETER: Tie him up to thy chair, then. Cowardly beast! What made him
fall?

CHANCELLOR: The hand of death.

PETER: Prythee speak plainlier.

CHANCELLOR: He said calmly, but not without sighing twice or thrice,
"Lead me to the scaffold; I am weary of life. My father says, too
truly, I am not courageous, but the death that leads me to my God shall
never terrify me." When he heard your majesty's name accusing him of
treason and attempts at parricide, he fell speechless. We raised him
up: he was dead!

PETER: Inconsiderate and barbarous varlet as thou art, dost thou recite
this ill accident to a father--and to one who has not dined? Bring me a
glass of brandy. Away and bring it: scamper! Hark ye! bring the bottle
with it: and--hark ye! a rasher of bacon on thy life! and some pickled
sturgeon, and some krout and caviar.


_II.--Joseph Scaliger and Montaigne_

MONTAIGNE: What could have brought you, M. de l'Escale, other than a
good heart? You rise early, I see; you must have risen with the sun, to
be here at this hour. I have capital white wine, and the best cheese in
Auvergne. Pierre, thou hast done well; set it upon the table, and tell
Master Matthew to split a couple of chickens and broil them.

SCALIGER: This, I perceive, is the ante-chamber to your library; here
are your every-day books.

MONTAIGNE: Faith! I have no other. These are plenty, methinks.

SCALIGER: You have great resources within yourself, and therefore can
do with fewer.

MONTAIGNE: Why, how many now do you think here may be?

SCALIGER: I did not believe at first that there could be above
fourscore.

MONTAIGNE: Well! are fourscore few? Are we talking of peas and beans?

SCALIGER: I and my father (put together) have written well-nigh as many.

MONTAIGNE: Ah! to write them is quite another thing. How do you like my
wine? If you prefer your own country wine, only say it. I have several
bottles in my cellar. I do not know, M. de l'Escale, whether you are
particular in these matters?

SCALIGER: I know three things--wine, poetry, and the world.

MONTAIGNE: You know one too many, then. I hardly know whether I know
anything about poetry; for I like Clem Marot better than Ronsard.

SCALIGER: It pleases me greatly that you like Marot. His version of
the Psalms is lately set to music, and added to the New Testament of
Geneva.

MONTAIGNE: It is putting a slice of honeycomb into a barrel of vinegar,
which will never grow the sweeter for it.

SCALIGER: Surely, you do not think in this fashion of the New Testament?

MONTAIGNE: Who supposes it? Whatever is mild and kindly is there. But
Jack Calvin has thrown bird-lime and vitriol upon it, and whoever but
touches the cover dirties his fingers or burns them.

SCALIGER: Calvin is a very great man.

MONTAIGNE: I do not like your great men who beckon me to them, call me
their begotten, their dear child, and their entrails; and, if I happen
to say on any occasion, "I beg leave, sir, to dissent a little from
you," stamp and cry, "The devil you do!" and whistle to the executioner.

SCALIGER: John Calvin is a grave man, orderly, and reasonable.

MONTAIGNE: In my opinion he has not the order nor the reason of my
cook. Mat never twitched God by the sleeve and swore He should not have
his own way.

SCALIGER: M. de Montaigne, have you ever studied the doctrine of
predestination?

MONTAIGNE: I should not understand it if I had; and I would not break
through an old fence merely to get into a cavern. Would it make me
honester or happier, or, in other things, wiser?

SCALIGER: I do not know whether it would materially.

MONTAIGNE: I should be an egregious fool, then, to care about it. Come,
walk about with me; after a ride you can do nothing better to take off
fatigue. I can show you nothing but my house and my dairy.

SCALIGER: Permit me to look a little at those banners. They remind me
of my own family, we being descended from the great Cane della Scala,
Prince of Verona, and from the House of Hapsburg, as you must have
heard from my father.

MONTAIGNE: What signifies it to the world whether the great Cane was
tied to his grandmother or not? As for the House of Hapsburg, if you
could put together as many such houses as would make up a city larger
than Cairo, they would not be worth his study, or a sheet of paper on
the table of it.


_III.--Bossuet and the Duchesse de Fontanges_

BOSSUET: Mademoiselle, it is the king's desire that I compliment you on
the elevation you have attained.

FONTANGES: O monseigneur, I know very well what you mean. His majesty
is kind and polite to everybody. The last thing he said to me was,
"Angélique! do not forget to compliment monseigneur the bishop on
the dignity I have conferred upon him, of almoner to the dauphiness.
I desired the appointment for him only that he might be of rank
sufficient to confess you, now you are duchess." You are so agreeable a
man, monseigneur, I will confess to you, directly.

BOSSUET: Have you brought yourself to a proper frame of mind, young
lady?

FONTANGES: What is that?

BOSSUET: Do you hate sin?

FONTANGES: Very much.

BOSSUET: Do you hate the world?

FONTANGES: A good deal of it; all Picardy, for example, and all
Sologne; nothing is uglier--and, oh my life! what frightful men and
women!

BOSSUET: I would say in plain language, do you hate the flesh and the
devil?

FONTANGES: Who does not hate the devil? If you will hold my hand the
while, I will tell him so--"I hate you, beast!" There now. As for
flesh, I never could bear a fat man. Such people can neither dance nor
hunt, nor do anything that I know of.

BOSSUET: Mademoiselle Marie Angélique de Scoraille de Rousille,
Duchesse de Fontanges! Do you hate titles, and dignities, and yourself?

FONTANGES: Myself! Does anyone hate me? Why should I be the first?
Hatred is the worst thing in the world; it makes one so very ugly.

BOSSUET: We must detest our bodies if we would save our souls.

FONTANGES: That is hard. How can I do it? I see nothing so detestable
in mine. Do you? As God hath not hated me, why should I? As for titles
and dignities, I am glad to be a duchess. Would not you rather be a
duchess than a waiting-maid if the king gave you your choice?

BOSSUET: Pardon me, mademoiselle. I am confounded at the levity of your
question. If you really have anything to confess, and desire that I
should have the honour of absolving you, it would be better to proceed.

FONTANGES: You must first direct me, monseigneur. I have nothing
particular. What was it that dropped on the floor as you were speaking?

BOSSUET: Leave it there!

FONTANGES: Your ring fell from your hand, my lord bishop! How quick you
are! Could not you have trusted me to pick it up?

BOSSUET: Madame is too condescending. My hand is shrivelled; the ring
has ceased to fit it. A pebble has moved you more than my words.

FONTANGES: It pleases me vastly. I admire rubies. I will ask the king
for one exactly like it. This is the time he usually comes from the
chase. I am sorry you cannot be present to hear how prettily I shall
ask him. I am sure he will order the ring for me, and I will confess
to you with it upon my finger. But, first, I must be cautious and
particular to know of him how much it is his royal will that I should
say.


_IV.--The Empress Catharine and Princess Dashkof_

CATHARINE: Into his heart! Into his heart! If he escapes, we perish!
Do you think, Dashkof, they can hear me through the double door? Yes,
hark! they heard me. They have done it! What bubbling and gurgling!
He groaned but once. Listen! His blood is busier now than it ever was
before. I should not have thought it could have splashed so loud upon
the floor. Put you ear against the lock.

DASHKOF: I hear nothing.

CATHARINE: My ears are quicker than yours, and know these notes better.
Let me come. There! There again! The drops are now like lead. How now?
Which of these fools has brought his dog with him? What trampling and
lapping! The creature will carry the marks all about the palace with
his feet! You turn pale, and tremble. You should have supported me, in
case I had required it.

DASHKOF: I thought only of the tyrant. Neither in life nor in death
could any one of these miscreants make me tremble. But the husband
slain by his wife! What will Russia--what will Europe say?

CATHARINE: Russia has no more voice than a whale. She may toss about in
her turbulence, but my artillery (for now, indeed, I can safely call it
mine) shall stun and quiet her.

DASHKOF: I fear for your renown.

CATHARINE: Europe shall be informed of my reasons, if she should ever
find out that I countenanced the conspiracy. She shall be persuaded
that her repose made the step necessary; that my own life was in
danger; that I fell upon my knees to soften the conspirators; that only
when I had fainted, the horrible deed was done.

DASHKOF: Europe may be more easily subjugated than duped.

CATHARINE: She shall be both, God willing! Is the rouge off my face?

DASHKOF: It is rather in streaks and mottles, excepting just under the
eyes, where it sits as it should do.

CATHARINE: I am heated and thirsty. I cannot imagine how. I think
we have not yet taken our coffee. I could eat only a slice of melon
at breakfast--my duty urged me _then_--and dinner is yet to come.
Remember, I am to faint at the midst of it, when the intelligence comes
in, or, rather, when, in despite of every effort to conceal it from
me, the awful truth has flashed upon my mind. Remember, too, you are
to catch me, and to cry for help, and to tear those fine flaxen hairs
which we laid up together on the toilet; and we are both to be as
inconsolable as we can be for the life of us.

Come, sing. I know not how to fill up the interval. Two long hours yet!
How stupid and tiresome! I wish all things of the sort could be done
and be over in a day. They are mightily disagreeable when by nature one
is not cruel. People little know my character. I have the tenderest
heart upon earth. Ivan must follow next; he is heir to the throne.
But not now. Another time. Two such scenes together, and without some
interlude, would perplex people.

I thought we spoke of singing. Do not make me wait. Cannot you sing as
usual, without smoothing your dove's throat with your handkerchief, and
taking off your necklace? Sing, sing! I am quite impatient!


_V.--Bacon and Richard Hooker_

BACON: Hearing much of your worthiness and wisdom, Master Richard
Hooker, I have besought your comfort and consolation in this my too
heavy affliction, for we often do stand in need of hearing what we
know full well, and our own balsams must be poured into our breasts by
another's hand. Withdrawn, as you live, from court and courtly men,
and having ears occupied by better reports than such as are flying
about me, yet haply so hard a case as mine, befalling a man heretofore
not averse from the studies in which you take delight, may have touched
you with some concern.

HOOKER: I do think, my lord of Verulam, that the day which in his
wisdom he appointed for your trial was the very day on which the
king's majesty gave unto your ward and custody the great seal of his
English realm. And--let me utter it without offence--your features and
stature were from that day forward no longer what they were before.
Such an effect do rank and power and office produce even on prudent and
religious men. You, my lord, as befits you, are smitten and contrite;
but I know that there is always a balm which lies uppermost in these
afflictions.

BACON: Master Richard, it is surely no small matter to lose the respect
of those who looked up to us for countenance; and the favour of a right
learned king, and, O Master Hooker, such a power of money! But money
is mere dross. I should always hold it so, if it possessed not two
qualities--that of making men treat us reverently, and that of enabling
us to help the needy.

HOOKER: The respect, I think, of those who respect us for what a fool
can give and a rogue can take away, may easily be dispensed with; but
it is indeed a high prerogative to help the needy, and when it pleases
the Almighty to deprive us of it, he hath removed a most fearful
responsibility.

BACON: Methinks it beginneth to rain, Master Richard. What if we
comfort our bodies with a small cup of wine, against the ill-temper of
the air. Pledge me; hither comes our wine.(_To the servant_) Dolt! Is
not this the beverage I reserve for myself?

Bear with me, good Master Hooker, but verily I have little of this
wine, and I keep it as a medicine for my many and growing infirmities.
You are healthy at present: God, in His infinite mercy, long maintain
you so! Weaker drink is more wholesome for you. But this Malmsey, this
Malmsey, flies from centre to circumference, and makes youthful blood
boil.

HOOKER: Of a truth, my knowledge in such matters is but sparse. My
lord of Canterbury once ordered part of a goblet, containing some
strong Spanish wine, to be taken to me from his table when I dined by
sufferance with his chaplains, and, although a most discreet, prudent
man, as befitteth his high station, was not so chary of my health as
your lordship. Wine is little to be trifled with; physic less. The
Cretans, the brewers of this Malmsey, have many aromatic and powerful
herbs among them. On their mountains, and notably on Ida, grows that
dittany which works such marvels, and which perhaps may give activity
to this hot medicinal drink of theirs. I would not touch it knowingly;
an unregarded leaf dropped into it above the ordinary might add such
puissance to the concoction as almost to break the buckles in my shoes.

BACON: When I read of such things I doubt them: but if I could procure
a plant of dittany I would persuade my apothecary and my gamekeeper to
make experiments.

HOOKER: I dare not distrust what grave writers have declared in matters
beyond my knowledge.

BACON: Good Master Hooker, I have read many of your reasonings, and
they are admirably well sustained. Yet forgive me, in God's name my
worthy master, if you descried in me some expression of wonder at your
simplicity. You would define to a hair's breadth the qualities, states,
and dependencies of principalities, dominations, and powers; you would
be unerring about the apostles and the churches, and 'tis marvellous
how you wander about a pot-herb!

HOOKER: I know my poor, weak intellects, most noble lord, and how
scantily they have profited by my hard painstaking. Wisdom consisteth
not in knowing many things, nor even in knowing them thoroughly, but
in choosing and in following what conduces the most certainly to our
lasting happiness and true glory.

BACON: I have observed among the well-informed and the ill-informed
nearly the same quantity of infirmities and follies; those who are
rather the wiser keep them separate, and those who are wisest of all
keep them better out of sight. I have persuaded men, and shall persuade
them for ages, that I possess a wide range of thought unexplored by
others, and first thrown open by me, with many fair enclosures of
choice and abstruse knowledge. One subject, however, hath almost
escaped me, and surely one worth the trouble.

HOOKER: Pray, my lord, if I am guilty of no indiscretion, what may it
be?

BACON: Francis Bacon.




LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

Reflections and Moral Maxims

  Rochefoucauld's "Reflections, or Sentences and Moral Maxims,"
  were published in 1665. In them his philosophy of life is
  expressed with a perfection of form which still remains
  unrivalled and unequalled. The original work contains only 314
  short sentences; the last edition he published contains 541; but
  when one examines the exquisite workmanship of his style, one
  does not wonder that it represents the labour of twenty years. La
  Rochefoucauld (see Vol. X, p. 203) is one of the greatest masters
  of French prose, as well as one of the great masters of cynicism.
  He has exerted a deep influence both on English and French
  literature, and Swift and Byron were among his disciples.


_I.--Of Love and of Women_

To judge love by most of its effects, it seems more like hatred than
kindness.

In love we often doubt of what we most believe.

As long as we love, we forgive.

Love is like fire, it cannot be without continual motion; as soon as it
ceases to hope or fear it ceases to exist.

Many persons would never have been in love had they never heard talk of
it.

Agreeable and pleasant as love is, it pleases more by the manners in
which it shows itself than by itself alone.

We pass on from love to ambition; we seldom return from ambition to
love.

Those who have had a great love affair find themselves all their life
happy and unhappy at being cured of it.

In love the one who is first cured is best cured.

The reason why lovers are never weary of talking of each other is that
they are always talking of themselves.

Constancy in love is a perpetual inconstancy which makes our heart
attach itself in succession to all the qualities of our beloved, and
prefer, now this trait and now that; so that this constancy is only a
kind of inconstancy fixed and enclosed in a single object.

If there is a love pure and exempt from all mixture with our other
passions, it is that which is hidden in the depth of our heart and
unknown to ourselves.

The pleasure of love consists in loving, and our own passion gives us
more happiness than the feelings which our beloved has for us.

The grace of novelty is to love like the fine bloom on fruit; it gives
it a lustre which is easily effaced and never recovered.

We are nearer loving those who hate us than those who love us more than
we desire.

Women often fancy themselves to be in love when they are not. Their
natural passion for being beloved, their unwillingness to give a
denial, the excitement of mind produced by an affair of gallantry, all
these make them imagine they are in love when they are in fact only
coquetting.

All women are flirts. Some are restrained by timidity and some by
reason.

The greatest miracle of love is the reformation of a coquette.

A coquette pretends to be jealous of her lover, in order to conceal her
envy of other women.

Most women yield more from weakness than from passion, hence an
enterprising man usually succeeds with them better than an amiable man.

It is harder for women to overcome their coquetry than their love. No
woman knows how much of a coquette she is.

Women who are in love more readily forgive great indiscretions than
small infidelities.

Some people are so full of themselves that even when they become lovers
they find a way of being occupied with their passion without being
interested in the person whom they love.

It is useless to be young without being beautiful, or beautiful without
being young.

In their first love affairs women love their lover; in all others they
love love.

In the old age of love, as in the old age of life, we continue to live
to pain long after we have ceased to live to pleasure.

There is no passion in which self-love reigns so powerfully as in love;
we are always more ready to sacrifice the repose of a person we love
than to lose our own.

There is a certain kind of love which, as it grows excessive, leaves no
room for jealousy.

Jealousy is born with love, but it does not always die with it.

Jealousy is the greatest of all afflictions, and that which least
excites pity in the persons that cause it.

In love and in friendship we are often happier by reason of the things
that we do not know than by those that we do.

There are few women whose merit lasts longer than their beauty.

The reason why most women are little touched by friendship is that
friendship is insipid to those who have felt what love is.


_II.--Friendship_

In the misfortunes of our best friends we always find something that
does not displease us.

Rare as true love is, it is less rare than true friendship.

What makes us so changing in our friendships is that it is difficult to
discern the qualities of the soul, and easy to recognize the qualities
of the mind.

It is equally difficult to have a friendship for those whom we do not
esteem as for those we esteem more than ourselves.

We love those who admire us, not those whom we admire.

Most of the friendships of the world ill deserve the name of
friendship; still, a man may make occasional use of them, as in a
business where the profits are uncertain and it is usual to be cheated.

It is more dishonourable to mistrust a friend than to be deceived by
him.

We are fond of exaggerating the love our friends bear us, but it is
less from a feeling of gratitude than from a desire to advertise our
own merits.

What usually hinders us from revealing the depths of our hearts to
our friends is not so much the distrust which we have of them as the
distrust that we have of ourselves.

We confess our little defects merely to persuade our friends that we
have no great failings.

The greatest effort of friendship is not to show our defects to a
friend, but to make him see his own.

Sincerity is an opening of the heart. It is found in exceedingly few
people, and what passes for it is only a subtle dissimulation used to
attract confidence.

We can love nothing except in relation to ourselves, and we merely
follow our own bent and pleasure when we prefer our friends to
ourselves; yet it is only by this preference that friendship can be
made true and perfect.

It seems as if self-love is the dupe of kindness and that it is
forgotten while we are working for the benefit of other men. In this
case, however, our self-love is merely taking the safest road to arrive
at its ends; it is lending at usury under the pretext of giving, it is
aiming at winning all the world by subtle and delicate means.

The first impulses of joy excited in us by the good fortune of our
friends proceed neither from our good nature nor from the friendship
we have for them; it is an effect of self-love that flatters us with
the hope either of being fortunate in our turn or of drawing some
advantage from their prosperity.

What makes us so eager to form new acquaintances is not the mere
pleasure of change or a weariness of old friendships, so much as a
disgust at not being enough admired by those who know us too well, and
a hope of winning more admiration from persons who do not know much
about us.


_III.--Things of the Mind_

The mind is always the dupe of the heart. Those who are acquainted with
their own mind are not acquainted with their own heart.

The mind is more indolent than the body.

It is the mark of fine intellects to explain many things in a few
words; little minds have the gift of speaking much and saying nothing.

We speak but little when vanity does not make us speak.

A spirit of confidence helps on conversation more than brilliance of
mind does.

True eloquence consists of saying all that is necessary, and nothing
more.

A man may be witty and still be a fool; judgment is the source of
wisdom.

A man does not please for very long when he has but one kind of wit.

It is a mistake to imagine that wit and judgment are two distinct
things; judgment is only the perfection of wit, which pierces into the
recesses of things and there perceives what from the outside seems to
be imperceptible.

A man of intelligence would often be at a loss were it not for the
company of fools.

It is not so much fertility of mind that leads us to discover many
expedients in regard to a single matter, as a defect of intelligence,
that makes us stop at everything presented to our imagination, and
hinders us from discerning at once which is the best course.

Some old men like to give good advice to console themselves for being
no longer in a state to give a bad example.

No man of sound good sense strikes us as such unless he is of our way
of thinking.

Stiffness of opinion comes from pettiness of mind; we do not easily
believe in anything that is beyond our range of vision.

Good taste is based on judgment rather than on intelligence.

It is more often through pride than through any want of enlightenment
that men set themselves stubbornly to oppose the most current opinions;
finding all the best places taken on the popular side, they do not want
those in the rear.

In order to understand things well one must know the detail of them;
and as this is almost infinite, our knowledge is always superficial and
imperfect.

It is never so difficult to talk well as when we are ashamed of our
silence.

The excessive pleasure we feel in talking about ourselves ought to make
us apprehensive that we afford little to our listeners.

Truth has not done so much good in the world as the false appearances
of it have done harm.

Man's chief wisdom consists in being sensible of his follies.


_IV.--Human Life and Human Nature_

Youth is a continual intoxication; it is the fever of reason.

The passions of youth are scarcely more opposed to salvation than the
lukewarmness of old persons.

There is not enough material in a fool to make a good man out of him.

We have more strength than will, and it is often to excuse ourselves to
ourselves that we imagine things are impossible.

There are few things impossible in themselves; it is the application to
achieve them that we lack more than the means.

It is a mistake to imagine that only the more violent passions, such as
ambition and love, can triumph over the rest. Idleness often masters
them all. It indeed influences all our designs and actions, and
insensibly destroys both our vices and our virtues.

Idleness is of all our passions that which is most unknown to
ourselves. It is the most ardent and the most malign of all, though we
do not feel its working, and the harm which it does is hidden. If we
consider its power attentively, we shall see that in every struggle it
triumphs over our feelings, our interests, and our pleasures. To give a
true idea of this passion it is necessary to add that idleness is like
a beatitude of the soul which consoles it for all its losses and serves
in place of all its wealth.

The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire to receive greater
favours.

We like better to see those on whom we confer benefits than those from
whom we receive them.

It is less dangerous to do harm to most men than to do them too much
good.

If we had no defects ourselves we should not take so much pleasure in
observing the failings of others.

One man may be more cunning than another man, but he cannot be more
cunning than all the world.

Mankind has made a virtue of moderation in order to limit the ambition
of great men and to console mediocre people for their scanty fortune
and their scanty merit.

We should often be ashamed of our finest actions if the world saw all
the motives that produced them.

Our desire to speak of ourselves, and to reveal our defects in the
best light in which we can show them, constitutes a great part of our
sincerity.

The shame that arises from undeserved praise often leads us to do
things which we should not otherwise have attempted.

The labours of the body free us from the pains of the mind. It is this
that constitutes the happiness of the poor.

It is more necessary to study men than to study books.

The truly honest man is he who sets no value on himself.

Censorious as the world is, it is oftener favourable to false merit
than unjust to true.

It is not enough to possess great qualities; we must know how to use
them.

He who lives without folly is not so wise as he fancies.

Good manners are the least of all laws and the most strictly observed.

Everybody complains of a lack of memory, nobody of a lack of judgment.

The love of justice is nothing more than a fear of injustice.

Passion often makes a fool of a man of sense, and sometimes it makes a
fool a man of sense.

Nature seems to have hidden in the depth of our minds a skill and a
talent of which we are ignorant; only our passions are able to bring
them out and to give us sometimes surer and more complete views than we
could arrive at by thought and study.

Our passions are the only orators with an unfailing power of
persuasion. They are an art of nature with infallible rules, and the
simplest man who is possessed by passion is far more persuasive than
the most eloquent speaker who is not moved by feeling.

As we grow old we grow foolish as well as wise.

Few people know how to grow old.

Death and the sun are things one cannot look at steadily.


_V.--Virtues and Vices_

Hypocrisy is a homage that vice pays to virtue.

Our vices are commonly disguised virtues.

Virtue would not go far if vanity did not go with her.

Prosperity is a stronger test of virtue than misfortune is.

Men blame vice and praise virtue only through self-interest.

Great souls are not those which have less passions and more virtues
than common souls, but those which have larger ambitions.

Of all our virtues one might say what an Italian poet has said of the
honesty of women, "that it is often nothing but an art of pretending to
be honest."

Virtues are lost in self-interest, as rivers are in the sea.

To the honour of virtue it must be acknowledged that the greatest
misfortunes befall men from their vices.

When our vices leave us, we flatter ourselves that we have left them.

Feebleness is more opposed to vice than virtue is.

What makes the pangs of shame and jealousy so sharp is that our vanity
cannot help us to support them.

What makes the vanity of other persons so intolerable is that it hurts
our own.

We have not the courage to say in general that we have no defects, and
that our enemies have no good qualities; but in matters of detail we
are not very far from believing it.

If we never flattered ourselves the flattery of others Would not injure
us.

We sometimes think we dislike flattery; we only dislike the way in
which we are flattered.

Flattery is a kind of bad money to which our vanity gives currency.

Self-love, as it happens to be well or ill-conducted, constitutes
virtue and vice.

We are so prepossessed in our own favour that we often mistake for
virtues those vices that bear some resemblance to them, and are
artfully disguised by self-love.

Nothing is so capable of lessening our self-love as the observation
that we disapprove at one time what we approve at another.

Self-love is the love of self, and of everything for the sake of self.
When fortune gives the means, self-love makes men idolise themselves
and tyrannise over others. It never rests or fixes itself anywhere
outside its home. If it settle on external things, it is only as the
bee does on flowers, to extract what may be serviceable. Nothing is so
impetuous as its desires, nothing so secret as its designs, nothing so
adroit as its conduct. We can neither fathom the depth, nor penetrate
the obscurity of its abyss. There, concealed from the most piercing
eye, it makes numberless turnings and windings; there is it often
invisible even to itself; there it conceives, breeds, and cherishes,
without being aware of it, an infinity of likings and hatreds; some
of which are so monstrous that, having given birth to them, self-love
either does not recognize them, or cannot bear to own them. From the
darkness which covers self-love spring the ridiculous notions which it
entertains of itself; thence its errors, ignorance, and silly mistakes;
thence it imagines that its feelings are dead when they are but asleep;
and thinks that it has lost all appetite when it is for the moment
sated.

But the thick mist which hides it from itself does not hinder it from
seeing perfectly whatever is without; and thus it resembles the eye,
that sees all things except itself. In great concerns and important
affairs, where the violence of its desire excites its whole attention,
it sees, perceives, understands, invents, suspects, penetrates, and
divines all things; so that one is tempted to believe that each of its
passions has its peculiar magic.

Its desires are inflamed by itself rather than by the beauty and merit
of the objects; its own taste heightens and embellishes them; itself
is the game it pursues, and its own inclination is what is followed
rather than the things which seem to be the objects of its inclination.
Composed of contrarieties, it is imperious and obedient, sincere and
hypocritical, merciful and cruel, timid and bold. Its desires tend,
according to the diverse moods that direct it, sometimes to glory,
sometimes to wealth, sometimes to pleasure. These are changed as age
and experience alter; and whether it has many inclinations or only one
is a matter of indifference, because it can split itself into many or
collect itself into one just as is convenient or agreeable.

It is inconstant; and numberless are the changes, besides those which
happen from external causes, which proceed from its own nature.
Inconstant through levity, through love, through novelty, through
satiety, through disgust, through inconstancy itself. Capricious; and
sometimes labouring with eagerness and incredible pains to obtain
things that are in no way advantageous, nay, even hurtful, but which
are pursued merely as a passion. Whimsical, and often exerting intense
application in the most trifling employments; taking delight in the
most insipid things, and preserving all its haughtiness in the most
contemptible pursuits. Attendant on all ages and conditions; living
everywhere; living on everything; living on nothing. Easy in either
the enjoyment, or privation of things. Going over to those who are at
variance with it; even entering into their schemes; and, wonderful!
joining with them, it hates itself; conspires its own destruction;
labours to be undone; desires only to exist; and, that granted,
consents to be its own enemy.

We are not therefore to be surprised if sometimes, uniting with the
most rigid austerity, it enters boldly into a combination against
itself; because what is lost in one respect is regained in another.
When we think it relinquishes pleasures, it only suspends or changes
them; and even when discomforted, and we seem to be rid of it, we
find it triumphant in its own defeat. Such is self-love!--of which
man's whole life is only a strong, a continued agitation. The sea
is a striking image of it, and in the flux and reflux of the waves,
self-love may find a lively expression of the turbulent succession of
its thoughts, and of its eternal agitation.




LEONARDO DA VINCI

Treatise on Painting

  Leonardo Da Vinci was born in 1452 at Anchiano, near Vinci,
  in Tuscany, the son of a Florentine notary. Trained in the
  workshop of Andrea Verrocchio, he became one of the greatest
  and most versatile artists of the Renaissance. Indeed, he must
  be considered one of the master-minds of all times, for there
  was scarcely a sphere of human knowledge in which he did not
  excel and surpass his contemporaries. He was not only preeminent
  as painter, sculptor, and architect, but was an accomplished
  musician, poet, and improvisatore, an engineer--able to construct
  canals, roads, fortifications, ships, and war-engines of every
  description--an inventor of rare musical instruments, and a great
  organiser of fêtes and pageants. Few of his artistic creations
  have come down to us; but his profound knowledge of art and
  science, and the wide range of his intellect are fully revealed
  in the scattered leaves of his notebooks, which are now preserved
  in the British Museum, the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, the
  Ambrosiani in Milan, and other collections. The first edition of
  the "Treatise on Painting" was a compilation from these original
  notes, published at Paris in 1651. Leonardo died at Cloux on May
  2, 1519.


_From Da Vinci's Notebooks_

The eye, which is called the window of the soul, is the principal means
whereby our intelligence may most fully and splendidly comprehend the
infinite works of nature; and the ear comes next, by gaining importance
through hearing the things that have been perceived by the eye. If you
historians or poets, or mathematicians, had not seen things with your
eyes, badly would you describe them in your writings. If you, O poet,
call painting dumb poetry, the painter might say of the poet's writing
blind painting. Now consider, which taunt is more mordant--to be called
blind or dumb?

If the poet is as free in invention as the painter, yet his fiction
is not as satisfying to mankind as is painting, for whereas poetry
endeavours with words to represent forms, actions, and scenes, the
painter's business is to imitate forms with the images of these very
forms. Take the case of a poet, describing the beauties of a woman
to her lover, and that of a painter depicting her; you will soon see
whither nature will attract the enamoured judge. And should not the
proof of things be the verdict of experience?

If you say that poetry is more enduring, I may reply that the works
of a coppersmith are more enduring still, since time has preserved
them longer than your works or ours; yet they are less imaginative,
and painting, if done with enamels on copper, can be made far more
enduring. We, in our art, may be said to be grandsons unto God. If you
despise painting, which is the sole imitator of all the visible works
of nature, then you certainly despise a subtle invention which, with
philosophical and ingenious reflection, considers all the properties of
forms, airs, and scenes, trees, animals, grasses and flowers, which are
surrounded by light and shade.

And this is a science and the true-born daughter of nature, since
painting is born of this self-same nature. But, in order to speak more
correctly, let us call it the grandchild of nature, because all visible
things are produced by nature, and from these same things is born
painting. Wherefore we may rightly call it the grandchild of nature,
related to God Himself.


_How Sculpture is Less Intellectual_

Being sculptor no less than painter, and practising both arts in the
same degree, it seems to me that I may without arrogance pronounce how
one of them is more intellectual, difficult, and perfect than the other.

Firstly, sculpture is subject to a certain light--namely, from
above--and painting carries everywhere with it light and shade. Light
and shade are, therefore, the essentials in sculpture. In this respect
the sculptor is aided by the nature of the relief, which produces these
of its own accord; the painter introduces them by his art where nature
would reasonably place them. The sculptor cannot reproduce the varying
nature of the colours of objects; painting lacks nothing in this
respect. The sculptor's perspectives never seem true, but the painter's
lead the eye hundreds of miles into the work. Aerial perspective
is alien to their work. They can neither represent transparent nor
luminous bodies, neither reflected rays nor shiny surfaces like mirrors
and similar glittering bodies; no mist, no dull sky, nor countless
other things, which I refrain from mentioning to avoid getting
wearisome. It has the advantage that it offers greater resistance to
time, although enamels on copper fused in fire have equal power of
resistance. Thus painting surpasses sculpture even in durability.

Were you to speak only of painting on panels, I should be content to
give the verdict against sculpture by saying: Whilst painting is more
beautiful, more imaginative, and more resourceful, sculpture is more
durable; and this is all that can be said for it. It reveals with
little effort what it is. Painting seems a miraculous thing, making
things intangible appear tangible, presenting flat objects in relief,
and distant near at hand. Indeed, painting is adorned with endless
possibilities that are not used by sculpture.

Painters fight and compete with nature.


_Of the Ten Offices of the Eye_

Painting extends over all the ten offices of the eye--namely, darkness,
light, body and colour, figure and scenery, distance and nearness,
movement and repose--all of which offices will be woven through this
little work of mine. For I will remind the painter by what rule and in
what manner he shall use his art to imitate all these things, the work
of nature and the ornament of the world.


_Rule for Beginners in Painting_

We know clearly that sight is one of the swiftest actions in existence,
perceiving in one moment countless forms. Nevertheless, it cannot
comprehend more than one thing at a time. Suppose, for instance, you,
reader, were to cast a single glance upon this entire written page and
were to decide at once that it is full of different letters; but you
will not be able to recognize in this space of time either what letters
they are or what they purport to say. Therefore, you must take word by
word, verse by verse, in order to gain knowledge from these letters.
Again, if you want to reach the summit of a building, you must submit
to climbing step by step, else it would be impossible for you to reach
the top. And so I say to you, whom nature inclines to this art, if you
would have a true knowledge of the form of things, begin with their
details, and don't pass on to the second before the first is well fixed
in your memory, else you will waste your time.

Perspective is the rein and rudder of painting.

I say whatever is forced within a border is more difficult than what is
free. Shadows have in certain degrees their borders, and he who ignores
them cannot obtain roundness, which roundness is the essence and soul
of painting. Drawing is free, since, if you see countless faces, they
will all be different--the one has a long, the other a short nose. Thus
the painter may take this liberty, and where is liberty, is no rule.


_Precepts for Painting_

The painter should endeavour to be universal, because he is lacking
in dignity if he do one thing well and another thing badly, like so
many who only study the well-proportionate nude and not its variations,
because a man may be proportionate and yet be short and stout, or
long and thin. And he who does not bear in mind these variations will
get his figures stereotyped, so that they all seem to be brothers and
sisters, which deserves to be censured severely.

Let the sketching of histories be swift and the articulation not too
perfect. Be satisfied with suggesting the position of the limbs, which
you may afterwards carry to completion at your leisure and as you
please.

Methinks it is no small grace in a painter if he give a pleasing air
to his figures, a grace which, if it be not one's own by nature, may
be acquired by study, as follows. Try to take the best parts from many
beautiful faces, whose beauty is affirmed by public fame rather than
by your own judgment, for you may deceive yourself by taking faces
which resemble your own. For it would often seem that such similarities
please us; and if you were ugly you would not select beautiful faces,
and you would make ugly ones, like many painters whose types often
resemble their master. Therefore, take beautiful features, as I tell
you, and commit them to your memory.

Monstrous is he who has a very large head and short legs, and monstrous
he who with rich garments has great poverty; therefore we shall call
him well proportioned whose every part corresponds with his whole.


_On the Choice of Light_

If you had a courtyard, which you could cover at will with a canvas
awning, this light would be good; or when you wish to paint somebody,
paint him in bad weather, or at the hour of dusk, placing the sitter
with his back to one of the walls of this courtyard.

Observe in the streets at the fall of the evening the faces of men and
women when it is bad weather, what grace and sweetness then appear to
be theirs.

Therefore, you should have a courtyard, prepared with walls painted in
black, and with the roof projecting a little over the said wall. And it
should be ten _braccia_ [ten fathoms] in width, and twenty in length
and ten in height; and when the sun shines you should cover it over
with the awning, or you should paint an hour before evening, when it is
cloudy or misty. For this is the most perfect light.


_Of the Gesture of Figures_

You should give your figures such movement as will suffice to show
what is passing in the mind of the figure; else your art would not be
praiseworthy. A figure is not worthy of praise if it do not express by
some gesture the passion of the soul. That figure is most worthy of
praise which best expresses by its gesture the passion of its nature.

If you have to represent an honest man talking, see that his action be
companion to his good words; and again, if you have to depict a bestial
man, give him wild movements--his arms thrown towards the spectator,
and his head pressed towards his chest, his legs apart.


_The Judgment of Painting_

We know well that mistakes are more easily detected in the works of
others than in one's own, and often, while censuring the small faults
of others, you do not recognise your own great faults. In order to
escape such ignorance, have a care that you be, above all, sure of your
perspective; then acquire full knowledge of the proportions of man and
other animals. And, moreover, be a good architect; that is, in so far
as it is necessary for the form of the buildings and other things that
are upon the earth, and that are infinitely varied in form.

The more knowledge you have of these, the more worthy of praise will be
your work. And for those things in which you have no practice, do not
disdain to copy from nature. When you are painting, you should take a
flat mirror and often look at your work within it. It will be seen in
reverse, and will appear to be by some other master, and you will be
better able to judge of its faults than in any other way. It is also a
good plan every now and then to go away and have a little relaxation,
for then, when you come back to the work, your judgment will be surer,
since to remain constantly at work will cause you to lose the power of
judgment.

Surely, while one paints one should not reject any man's judgment; for
we know very well that a man, even if he be no painter, has knowledge
of the forms of another man, and will judge aright whether he is
hump-backed, or has one shoulder too high or too low, or whether he has
too large a mouth or nose, or other faults; and if we are able rightly
to judge the work of nature in men, how much more is it fit to admit
that they are able to judge our mistakes.

You know how much man may be deceived about his own works, and if you
do not know it of yourself, observe it in others, and you will derive
benefit from other people's mistakes. Therefore, you should be eager
to listen patiently to the views of other men and consider and reflect
carefully whether he who finds fault is right or not in blaming you. If
you find that he is right, correct your work; but if not, pretend not
to have understood him; or show him, if he be a man whom you respect,
by sound argument, why it is that he is mistaken in finding fault.


_Do Not Disdain to Work from Nature_

A master who let it be understood that his mind could retain all the
forms and effects of nature, I should certainly hold to be endowed with
great ignorance, since the said effects are infinite, and our memory is
not of such capacity as to suffice thereto. Therefore, O painter, see
that the greed for gain do not outweigh within you the honour of art,
for to gain in honour is a far greater thing than to be honoured for
wealth.

For these and other reasons that might be adduced, you should endeavour
first to demonstrate to the eye, by means of drawing, a suggestion
of the intention and of the invention originated first by your
imagination. Then proceed, taking from it or adding to it, until you
are satisfied with it. Then have men arranged as models, draped or
nude, in the manner in which they are disposed in your work, and make
the proportions and size in accordance with perspective, so that no
part of the work remains that is not counselled by reason as well as by
nature.

And this will be the way to make you honoured through your art. First
of all, copy drawings by a good master made by his art from nature, and
not as exercises; then from a relief, keeping by you a drawing done
from the same relief; then from a good model, and of this you ought to
make a general practice.


_Of the Painter's Life in His Study_

The painter or draughtsman should be solitary, so that physical comfort
may not injure the thriving of the mind, especially when he is occupied
with the observations and considerations which ever offer themselves to
his eye and provide material to be treasured up by the memory. If you
are alone, you belong wholly to yourself; and if you are accompanied
even by one companion, you belong only half to yourself; and if you
are with several of them, you will be even more subject to such
inconveniences.

And if you should say, "I shall take my own course, I shall keep apart,
so that I may be the better able to contemplate the forms of natural
objects," then I reply, this cannot well be, because you cannot help
frequently lending your ear to their gossip; and since nobody can serve
two masters at once, you will badly fulfil your duties as companion,
and you will have worse success in artistic contemplation. And if you
should say, "I shall keep so far apart that their words cannot reach me
or disturb me," then I reply in this case that you will be looked upon
as mad. And do you not perceive that, in acting thus, you would really
be solitary?


_Of Ways to Represent Various Scenes_

A man in despair you should make turning his knife against himself. He
should have rent his garments, and he should be in the act of tearing
open his wound with one hand. And you should make him with his feet
apart and his legs somewhat bent, and the whole figure likewise bending
to the ground, with dishevelled and untidy hair.

As a rule, he whom you wish to represent talking to many people will
consider the subject of which he has to treat, and will fit his
gestures to this subject--that is to say, if the subject is persuasion,
the gestures should serve this intention; if the subject is explanation
by various reasons, he who speaks should take a finger of his left hand
between two fingers of his right, keeping the two smaller ones pressed
together; his face should be animated and turned towards the people,
his mouth slightly opened, so that he seems to be talking. And if he
is seated, let him seem to be in the act of slightly raising himself,
with his head forward; and if he is standing, make him lean forward
a little, with his head towards the people, whom you should represent
silent and attentive, all watching, with gestures of admiration, the
orator's face. Some old men should have their mouths drawn down at the
corners in astonishment at what they hear, drawing back the cheeks in
many furrows, and raising their eyebrows where they meet, so as to
produce many wrinkles on their foreheads. Some who are seated should
hold their tired knees between the interlaced fingers of their hands,
and others should cross one knee over the other, and place upon it one
hand, so that its hollow supports the other elbow, whose hand again
supports the bearded chin.

Whatever is wholly deprived of light is complete darkness. Night being
in this condition, if you wish to represent a scene therein, you must
contrive to have a great fire in this night, and everything that is in
closer proximity to this fire will assume more of its colour, because
the nearer a thing is to another object, the more it partakes of its
nature. And since you will make the fire incline towards a red colour,
you will have to give a reddish tinge to all things lighted by it, and
those which are farther away from the fire will have to hold more of
the black colour of night. The figures which are between you and the
fire appear dark against the brightness of the flame, for that part of
the object which you perceive is coloured by the darkness of night,
and not by the brightness of the fire; and those which flank the fire
will be half dark and half reddish. Those which are behind the flames
will be altogether illuminated by a reddish light against the black
background.

If you wish to represent a tempest properly, observe and set down the
effects of the wind blowing over the face of the sea and of the land,
raising and carrying away everything that is not firmly rooted in the
general mass. And in order properly to represent this tempest, you
should first of all show the riven and torn clouds swept along by the
wind, together with the sandy dust blown up from the seashore, and with
branches and leaves caught up and scattered through the air, together
with many other light objects, by the power of the furious wind. The
trees and shrubs, bent to the ground, seem to desire to follow the
direction of the wind, with branches twisted out of their natural
growth, and their foliage tossed and inverted.

Of the men who are present, some who are thrown down and entangled with
their garments and covered with dust should be almost unrecognisable;
and those who are left standing may be behind some tree which they
embrace, so that the storm should not carry them off. Others, bent
down, their garments and hair streaming in the wind, should hold their
hands before their eyes because of the dust.

Let the turbulent and tempestuous sea be covered with eddying foam
between the rising waves, and let the wind carry fine spray into the
stormy air to resemble a thick and all-enveloping mist. Of the ships
that are there, show some with rent sails, whose shreds should flap in
the air, together with some broken halyards; masts splintered, tumbled,
with the ship itself broken by the fury of the waves; some human
beings, shrieking, and clinging to the wreckage of the vessel. You
should show the clouds, chased by the impetuous wind, hurled against
the high tops of the mountains, wreathing and eddying like waves that
beat against the cliffs. The air should strike terror through the murky
darkness caused by the dust, the mist, and the heavy clouds.


_To Learn to Work from Memory_

If you want properly to commit to your memory something that you
have learnt, proceed in this manner--namely, when you have drawn one
object so often that you believe you can remember it, try to draw it
without the model, after having traced your model on a thin sheet of
glass. This glass you will then lay upon the drawing which you have
made without model. Observe well where the tracing does not tally with
your drawing, and wherever you find that you have gone wrong, you must
remember not to go wrong again. You should even return to the model,
in order again to draw the wrong passage until it shall be fixed in
your memory. And if you have no level sheet of glass for tracing, take
a very thin sheet of goat-parchment, well oiled, and then dried. And
after the tracing has done service for your drawing, you can efface it
with a sponge and use it again for another tracing.


_On Studying in Bed_

I have experienced upon myself that it is of no small benefit if, when
you are in bed, you apply your imagination to repeating the superficial
lines of the forms which you have been studying, or to other remarkable
things which are comprehensible to a fine intellect. This is a
praiseworthy and useful action which will help you to fix things in
your memory.




GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING

Laocoon

  In 1766, while acting as secretary to the governor of Breslau,
  Lessing wrote his celebrated "Laocoon," a critical treatise
  defining the limits of poetry and the plastic arts. The epitome
  given here has been prepared from the German text. A short
  biographical sketch of Lessing appears in the introduction to his
  play, "Nathan the Wise," appearing in Volume XVII of THE WORLD'S
  GREATEST BOOKS.


_I.--On the Limits of Painting and Poetry_

Winkelman has pronounced a noble simplicity and quiet grandeur,
displayed in the posture no less than in the expression, to be the
characteristic feature common to all the Greek masterpieces of painting
and sculpture. "As," says he, "the depths of the sea always remain
calm, however violently the surface may rage, so the expression in the
figures of the Greeks, under every form of passion, shows a great and
self-collected soul.

"This spirit is portrayed in the countenance of Laocoon, but not in
the countenance alone. Even under the most violent suffering the
pain discovers itself in every muscle and sinew of his body, and the
beholder, while looking at the agonised conditions of the stomach,
without viewing the face and other parts, believes that he almost feels
the pain himself. The pain expresses itself without any violence, both
in the features and in the whole posture. Laocoon suffers, but he
suffers as the Philoctetes of Sophocles. His misery pierces us to the
very soul, but inspires us with a wish that we could endure misery like
that great man.

"The expressing of so great a soul is far higher than the painting of
beautiful nature. The artist must feel within himself that strength of
spirit which he would imprint on his marble. Greece had philosophers
and artists in one person. Philosophy gave her hand to art, and
inspired its figures with no ordinary souls."

The above remarks are founded on the argument that "the pain in
the face of Laocoon does not show itself with that force which its
intensity would have led us to expect." This is correct. But I confess
I differ from Winkelman as to what, in his opinion, is the basis of
this wisdom, and as to the universality of the rule which he deduces
from it. I acknowledge I was startled, first by the glances of
disapproval which he casts on Virgil, and, secondly, by the comparison
with Philoctetes. From this point I shall begin, writing down my
thoughts as they were developed in me.

"Laocoon suffers as does the Philoctetes of Sophocles." But how does
this last suffer? It is curious that his sufferings should leave such a
different impression behind them. The cries and mild imprecations with
which he filled the camp and interrupted the sacrifices echoed through
the desolate island. The same sounds of despair fill the theatre in the
poet's imitation.

A cry is the natural expression of bodily pain. Homer's wounded heroes
frequently fall to the ground with cries. They are in their actions
beings of higher order; in their feelings, true men.

We more civilised and refined Europeans of a wiser and later age are
forbidden to cry and weep, and even our ancestors were taught to
suppress lamentation at loss, and to die laughing under the bites of
adders. Not so the Greeks. They felt and feared, and gave utterance to
pain and sorrow, only nothing must hold them back from duty.

Now for my inference. If it be true that, a cry at the sensation of
bodily pain, according to the old Greek way of thinking, is quite
compatible with greatness of soul, it cannot have been for the sake of
expressing such greatness that the artist avoided imitating his shriek
in marble. Another reason must be found for his deviation from his
rival, the poet, who has expressed it with the happiest results.

Be it fable or history, it is love that made the first essay in the
plastic arts, and never wearied of guiding the hands of the masters
of old. Painting now may be defined generally as "the imitation of
bodies of matter on a level surface"; but the wise Greek allotted for
it narrower limits, and confined it to imitations of the beautiful
only; his artists painted nothing else. It was the perfection of their
work that absorbed them. Among the ancients beauty was the highest
law of the plastic arts. To beauty everything was subordinated. There
are passions by which all beautiful physical lines are lost through
the distortion of the body, but from all such emotions the ancient
masters abstained entirely. Rage and despair disgrace none of their
productions, and I dare maintain that they never painted a fury.

Indignation was softened down to seriousness. Grief was lessened into
mournfulness. All know how Timanthes in his painting of the sacrifice
of Iphigenia shows the sorrow of the bystanders, but has concealed
the face of the father, who should show it more than all. He left to
conjecture what he might not paint. This concealment is a sacrifice to
beauty by the artist, and it shows how art's first law is the law of
beauty.

Now apply this to Laocoon. The master aimed at the highest beauty
compatible with the adopted circumstances of bodily pain. He must
soften shrieks into sighs. For only imagine the mouth of Laocoon to be
forced open, and then judge.

But art in modern times has been allowed a far wider sphere. It has
been affirmed that its limitations extend over the whole of visible
nature, of which the beautiful is but a small part. And as nature is
ever ready to sacrifice beauty to higher aims, so should the artist
render it subordinate to his general design. But are there not
other considerations which compel the artist to put certain limits
to expression, and prevent him from ever drawing it at its highest
intensity?

I believe that the fact that it is to a single moment that the material
limits of art confine all its limitations, will lead us to similar
views.

If the artist out of ever-varying nature can only make use of a single
moment, while his works are meant to stand the test not only of a
passing glance, but of a long and repeated contemplation, it is clear
that this moment cannot be chosen too happily. Now that only is a
happy choice which allows the imagination free scope. In the whole
course of a feeling there is no moment which possesses this advantage
so little as its highest stage. There is nothing beyond this, and the
presentation of extremes to the eye clips the wings of fancy, prevents
her from soaring beyond the impression of the senses, and compels
her to occupy herself with weaker images. Thus if Laocoon sighs, the
imagination can hear him shriek; but if he shrieks, it can neither
rise above nor descend below this representation without seeing him
in a condition which, as it will be more endurable, becomes less
interesting. It either hears him merely moaning, or sees him already
dead.

Of the frenzied Ajax of Timomachus we can form some judgment from the
account of Philoctetes. Ajax does not appear raging among herds and
slaughtering cattle instead of men; but the master exhibits him sitting
wearied with these deeds of insanity, and that is really the raging
Ajax. We can form the most lively idea of the extremity of his frenzy
from the shame and despair which he himself feels at the thought of it.
We see the storm in the wrecks and corpses which it had strewn on the
beach.


_II.--The Poet_

Perhaps hardly any of the above remarks concerning the necessary limits
of the artist would be found equally applicable to poetry. It is
undeniable that the whole realm of the perfectly excellent lies open
to the imitation of the poet, that excellence of outward form which we
call beauty being only one of the least of the means by which he can
interest us in his characters.

Moreover, the poet is not compelled to concentrate his picture into
a single moment. He can take up every action of his hero at its
source, and pursue it to its issue through all possible variations.
Each of these, which would cost the artist a separate work, costs the
poet but a single trait. What wonderful skill has Sophocles shown in
strengthening and enlarging, in his tragedy of Philoctetes, the idea
of bodily pain! He chose a wound, and not an internal malady, because
the former admits of a more lively representation than the latter.
This wound was, moreover, a punishment divinely decreed. But to the
Greeks a wound from a poisoned arrow was but an ordinary incident. Why,
then, in the case of Philoctetes only was it followed by such dreadful
consequences?

Sophocles felt full well that, however great he made the bodily pain to
his hero, it would not have sufficed of itself to excite any remarkable
degree of sympathy. He therefore combined it with other evils--the
complete lack of society, hunger, and all the hardships to which such a
man under terrible privations is exposed when cast on a wild, deserted
isle of the Cyclades.

Imagine, now, a man in these conditions, but give him health and
strength and industry, and he becomes a Crusoe, whose lot, though not
indifferent to us, has no great claim on our sympathy. On the other
hand, imagine a man afflicted by a painful and incurable disease, but
at the same time surrounded by kind friends. For him we should feel
sympathy, yet this would not endure throughout. Only when both cases
are combined do we see nothing but despair, which excites our amazement
and horror. Typical beauty arises from the harmonious effect of
numerous parts, all of which the sight is capable of comprehending at
the same time. It requires, therefore, that these parts should lie near
each other; and since things whose parts lie near each other are the
peculiar objects of plastic beauty, these it is, and these only, which
can imitate typical beauty. The poet, since he can only exhibit in
succession its component parts, entirely abstains from the description
of typical beauty. He feels that these parts, ranged one after the
other, cannot possibly have the effect they produce when closely
arranged together.

In this respect Homer is a pattern of patterns. He says Nireus was
beautiful, Achilles still more so, Helen was endowed with divine
beauty. But nowhere does he enter on a detailed sketch of these
beauties, and yet the whole Iliad is based on the loveliness of Helen.

In this point, in which he can imitate Homer by merely doing nothing,
Virgil is also tolerably happy. His heroine Dido, too, is never
anything more than _pulcherrima_ Dido (loveliest Dido). When he wishes
to be more circumstantial, he is so in the description of her rich
dress and apparel.

Lucian, also, was too acute to convey any idea of the body of Panthea
otherwise than by reference to the most lovely female statues of the
old artists.

Yet what is this but the acknowledgment that language by itself is
here without power; that poetry falters and eloquence grows speechless
unless art in some measure serve them as an interpreter?

But, it will be said, does not poetry lose too much if we deprive
her of all objects of typical beauty? Who would deprive her of them?
Because we would debar her from wandering among the footsteps of her
sister art, without ever reaching the same goal as she, do we exclude
her from every other, where art in her turn must gaze after her steps
with fruitless longings?

Even Homer, who so pointedly abstains from all detailed descriptions
of typical beauties, from whom we but just learn that Helen had white
arms and lovely hair, even he, with all this, knew how to convey to us
an idea of her beauty which far exceeds anything that art is able to
accomplish.


_III.--Beauty and Charm_

Again, another means which poetry possesses of rivalling art in the
description of typical beauty is the change of beauty into charm.
Charm is beauty in motion, and is for this very reason less suitable
to the painter than to the poet. The painter can only leave motion to
conjecture, while in fact his figures are motionless. Consequently,
with him charm becomes grimace.

But in poetry it remains what it is, a transitory beauty which we would
gladly see repeated. It comes and goes, and since we can generally
recall to our minds a movement more easily and vividly than forms
or colours, charm necessarily in the same circumstances produces a
stronger effect than beauty.

Zeuxis painted a Helen, and had the courage to write below the picture
those renowned lines of Homer in which the enraptured elders confess
their sensations. Never had painting and poetry been engaged in such
contest. The contest remained undecided, and both deserved the crown.

For just as a wise poet showed us the beauty which he felt he could not
paint according to its constituent parts, but merely in its effect, so
the no less wise painter showed us that beauty by nothing but those
parts, deeming it unbecoming for his art to resort to any other means
for aid. His picture consisted of a single figure, undraped, of Helen,
probably the one painted for the people of Crotona.

In beauty a single unbecoming part may disturb the harmonious effect
of many, without the object necessarily becoming ugly. For ugliness,
too, requires several unbecoming parts, all of which we must be able
to comprehend at the same view before we experience sensations the
opposite of those which beauty produces.

According to this, therefore, ugliness in its essence could be no
subject of poetry; yet Homer has painted extreme ugliness in Thersites,
and this ugliness is described according to its parts near each other.
Why in the case of ugliness did he allow himself the license from which
he had abstained in that of beauty? A successive enumeration of the
elements of beauty will annihilate its effects. Will not a similar
cause produce a similar effect in the case of ugliness?

Undoubtedly it will; but it is in this very fact that the justification
of Homer lies. The poet can only take advantage of ugliness so far as
it is reduced in his description into the less repugnant appearance of
bodily imperfection, and ceases, as it were, in point of effect, to be
ugliness. Thus, what he cannot make use of by itself he can use as the
ingredient for the purpose of producing and strengthening certain mixed
sensations.

These mixed feelings are the ridiculous and the horrible. Homer makes
Thersites ugly in order to make him ridiculous. He is not made so,
however, merely by his ugliness, for ugliness is an imperfection, and
the contrast of perfection with imperfections is required to produce
the ridiculous. To this I may add that the contrast must not be too
sharp and glaring, and that the contrasts must blend into each other.

The wise and virtuous Æsop does not become ridiculous because of
ugliness attributed to him. For his misshapen body and beautiful
mind are as oil and vinegar; however much you shake them together,
they always remain distinct to the taste. They will not amalgamate
to produce a third quality. The body produces annoyance; the soul,
pleasure; each has its own effect.

It is only when the deformed body is also fragile and, sickly, when it
impedes the soul, that the annoyance and pleasure melt into each other.

For, let us suppose that the instigations of the malicious and snarling
Thersites had resulted in mutiny, that the people had forsaken their
leaders and departed in the ships, and that these leaders had been
massacred by a revengeful foe. How would the ugliness of Thersites
appear then? If ugliness, when harmless, may be ridiculous, when
hurtful it is always horrible. In Shakespeare's "King Lear," Edmund,
the bastard Count of Gloucester, is no less a villain than Richard,
Duke of Gloucester, in "King Richard III." How is it, then, that the
first excites our loathing so much less than the second? It is because
when I hear the former, I listen to a devil, but see him as an angel of
light; but in listening to Richard I hear a devil and see a devil.




JOHN STUART MILL

Essay on Liberty

  Ten years elapsed between the publication of "Political Economy"
  (see Vol. XIV, p. 294) and the "Essay on Liberty," Mill in the
  meantime (1851) having married Mrs. John Taylor, a lady who
  exercised no small influence on his philosophical position.
  The seven years of his married life saw little or nothing from
  his pen. The "Essay on Liberty," in many respects the most
  carefully prepared of all his books, appeared in 1859, the
  year following the death of his wife, in collaboration with
  whom it was thought out and partly written. The treatise goes
  naturally with that on "Utilitarianism." Both are succinct and
  incisive in their reasoning, and both are grounded on similar
  sociological principles. Perhaps the primary problem of politics
  in all ages has been the reconciliation of individual and social
  interests; and at the present day, when the problem appears to
  be particularly troublesome, Mill's view of the situation is
  of especial value. In recent time, legislation has certainly
  tended to become more socialistic, and the doctrine of individual
  liberty promulgated in this "Essay" has a most interesting
  relevancy to modern social movements.


_I.--Liberty of Thought and Discussion_

Protection against popular government is as indispensable as protection
against political despotism. The people may desire to oppress a part
of their number, and precautions are needed against this as against
any other abuse of power. So much will be readily granted by most, and
yet no attempt has been made to find the fitting adjustment between
individual independence and social control.

The object of this essay is to assert the simple principle that the
sole end for which mankind are warranted, individually or collectively,
in interfering with the liberty of action of any of their number
is self-protection--that the only purpose for which power can be
rightfully exercised over any member of a civilised community,
against his will, is to prevent harm to others, either by his action
or inaction. The only part of the conduct of anyone for which he is
amenable to society is that which concerns others. In the part which
merely concerns himself, his independence is, of right, absolute. Over
himself, over his own body and mind, the individual is sovereign.

This principle requires, firstly, liberty of conscience in the most
comprehensive sense, liberty of thought and feeling; absolute freedom
of opinion and sentiment on all subjects, practical or speculative,
scientific, moral, or theological--the liberty even of publishing
and expressing opinions. Secondly, the principle requires liberty
of tastes and pursuits; of framing the plan of our life to suit
our own character; of doing as we like, so long as we do not harm
our fellow-creatures. Thirdly, the principle requires liberty of
combination among individuals for any purpose not involving harm to
others, provided the persons are of full age and not forced or deceived.

The only freedom which deserves the name is that of pursuing our own
good in our own way, so long as we do not attempt to deprive others
of theirs, or impede their efforts to obtain it. Mankind gains more
by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by
compelling each to live as seems good to the rest.

Coercion in matters of thought and discussion must always be
illegitimate. If all mankind save one were of one opinion, mankind
would be no more justified in silencing the solitary individual than
he, if he had the power, would be justified in silencing mankind. The
peculiar evil of silencing the expression of opinion is that it is
robbing the whole human race, present and future--those who dissent
from the opinion even more than those who hold it. For if the opinion
is right, they are deprived of the opportunity of exchanging error for
truth; and if wrong, they lose the clear and livelier impression of
truth produced by its collision with error.

All silencing of discussion is an assumption of infallibility, and,
as all history teaches, neither communities nor individuals are
infallible. Men cannot be too often reminded of the condemnation of
Socrates and of Christ, and of the persecution of the Christians by the
noble-minded Marcus Aurelius.

Enemies of religious freedom maintain that persecution is a good thing,
for, even though it makes mistakes, it will root out error while it
cannot extirpate truth. But history shows that even if truth cannot be
finally extirpated, it may at least be put back centuries.

We no longer put heretics to death; but we punish heresies with a
social stigma almost as effective, since it may debar men from earning
their bread. Social intolerance does not actually eradicate heresies,
but it induces men to hide unpopular opinions. The result is that new
and heretical opinions smoulder in the narrow circles of thinking and
studious persons who originate them, and never light up the general
affairs of mankind with either a true or deceptive light. The price
paid for intellectual pacification is the sacrifice of the entire moral
courage of the human race. Who can compute what the world loses in the
multitude of promising intellects too timid to follow out any bold,
independent train of thought lest it might be considered irreligious
or immoral? No one can be a great thinker who does not follow his
intellect to whatever conclusions it may lead. In a general atmosphere
of mental slavery a few great thinkers may survive, but in such an
atmosphere there never has been, and never will be, an intellectually
active people; and all progress in the human mind and in human
institutions may be traced to periods of mental emancipation.

Even if an opinion be indubitably true and undoubtingly believed, it
will be a dead dogma, and not a living truth, if it be not fully,
frequently, and fearlessly discussed. If the cultivation of the
understanding consists of one thing more than another, it is surely in
learning the grounds of one's own opinions, and these can only be fully
learned by facing the arguments that favour the opposite opinions. He
who knows only his own side of the case knows little of that. Unless he
knows the difficulties which his truth has to encounter and conquer,
he knows little of the force of his truth. Not only are the grounds of
an opinion unformed or forgotten in the absence of discussion, but too
often the very meaning of the opinion. When the mind is not compelled
to exercise its powers on the questions which its belief presents to
it, there is a progressive tendency to forget all of the belief except
the formularies, until it almost ceases to connect itself at all with
the inner life of the human being. In such cases a creed merely stands
sentinel at the entrance of the mind and heart to keep them empty,
as is so often seen in the case of the Christian creed as at present
professed.

So far we have considered only two possibilities--that the received
opinion may be false and some other opinion consequently true, or that,
the received opinion being true, a conflict with the opposite error is
essential to a clear apprehension and deep feeling of the truth. But
there is a commoner case still, when conflicting doctrines share the
truth, and when the heretical doctrine completes the orthodox. Every
opinion which embodies somewhat of the portion of the truth which the
common opinion omits, ought to be considered precious with whatever
amount of error and confusion it may be conjoined. In politics,
again, it is almost a commonplace that a party of order or stability,
and a party of progress or reform, are both necessary factors in a
healthy political life. Unless opinions favourable to democracy and
to aristocracy, to property, and to equality, to co-operation and to
competition, to sociality and to individuality, to liberty and to
discipline, and all the other standing antagonisms of practical life
are expressed with equal freedom, and enforced and defended with equal
talent and energy, there is no chance of both elements obtaining their
due. Truth is usually reached only by the rough process of a struggle
between combatants fighting under hostile banners.

It may be objected, "But _some_ received principles, especially on
the highest and most vital subjects, are more than half-truths."
This objection is not sound. Even the Christian morality is, in many
important points, incomplete and one-sided, and unless ideas and
feelings not sanctioned by it had constituted to the formation of
European life and character, human affairs would have been in a worse
condition than they now are.


_II.--Individuality as One of the Elements of Well-Being_

We have seen that opinions should be freely formed and freely
expressed. How about _actions_? If a man refrains from molesting others
in what concerns him, and merely acts according to his own inclination
and judgment in things which concern himself, the same reasons which
show that opinion should be free prove also that he should be allowed
to carry his opinions into action. As it is useful that while mankind
are imperfect there should be different opinions, so it is useful that
there should be different experiments of living, that free scope should
be given to varieties of character short of injury to others, and that
the worth of different modes of life should be proved practically. It
is desirable, in short, that in things which do not primarily concern
others, individuality should assert itself. When, not the person's own
character, but the traditions or customs of other people are the rule
of conduct, there is wanting one of the principal ingredients of human
happiness and quite the chief ingredient of individual and social
progress.

No one's idea of excellence in conduct is that people should do
absolutely nothing but copy one another. On the other hand, it would
be absurd to pretend that people ought to live as if experience had
as yet done nothing towards showing that one mode of existence or of
conduct is preferable to another. No one denies that people should be
so taught and trained in youth as to know and benefit by the results of
human experience. But it is the privilege of a mature man to use and
interpret experience in his own way. He who lets the world, or his own
portion of it, choose his plan of life for him has no need of any other
faculty than the ape-like one of imitation. He, on the other hand, who
chooses his plan for himself, employs all his faculties--reasoning,
foresight, activity, discrimination, resolution, self-control. We wish
not automatons, but living, originating men and women.

So much will be readily conceded, but nevertheless it may be
maintained that strong desires and passions are a peril and a snare.
Yet it is desires and impulses which constitute character, and one
with no desires and impulses of his own has no more character than
a steam-engine. An energetic character implies strong, spontaneous
impulses under the control of a strong will; and such characters
are desirable, since the danger which threatens modern society is
not excess but deficiency of personal impulses and preferences.
Everyone nowadays asks: what is usually done by persons of my station
and pecuniary circumstances, or (worse still) what is usually done
by persons of a station and circumstances superior to mine? The
consequence is that, through failure to follow their own nature, they
have no nature to follow; their human capacities are withered and
starved, and are incapable of any strong pleasures or opinions properly
their own.

It is not by pruning away the individual but by cultivating it wisely
that human beings become valuable to themselves and to others, and that
human life becomes rich, diversified, and interesting. Individuality is
equivalent to development, and in proportion to the latitude given to
individuality an age becomes noteworthy or the reverse.

Unfortunately, the general tendency of things is to render mediocrity
the ascendant power. At present, individuals are lost in the crowd,
and it is almost a triviality to say that public opinion now rules the
world. And public opinion is the opinion of collective mediocrity, and
is expressed by mediocre men. The initiation of all wise and noble
opinions must come from individuals, and the individuality of those who
stand on the higher eminences of thought is necessary to correct the
tendency that makes mankind acquiesce in customary and popular opinions.


_III.--The Limits of the Authority of Society Over the Individual_

Where, then, does the authority of society begin? How much of human
life should be assigned to individuality, and how much to society?

To individuality should belong that part of life in which it is chiefly
the individual that is interested; to society, the part which chiefly
interests society.

Society, in return for the protection it affords its members, and as a
condition of its existence, demands, firstly, that its members respect
the rights of one another; and, secondly, that each person bear his
share of the labours and sacrifices incurred in defending society for
its members. Further, society may punish acts of an individual hurtful
to others, even if not a violation of rights, by the force of public
opinion.

But in all cases where a person's conduct affects or need only affect
himself, society may not interfere. Society may help individuals in
their personal affairs, but neither one person, nor any number of
persons, is warranted in saying to any human creature that he may not
use his own life, so far as it concerns himself, as he pleases. He
himself is the final judge of his own concerns, and the inconveniences
which are strictly inseparable from the unfavourable judgment of others
are the only ones to which a person should ever be subjected for that
portion of his conduct and character which affects his own good, but
which does not affect the interests of others.

But how, it may be asked, can any part of the conduct of a member of
society be a matter of indifference to the other members?

I fully confess that the mischief which a person does to himself may
seriously affect those nearly connected with him, and even society
at large. But such contingent and indirect injury should be endured
by society for the sake of the greater good of human freedom, and
because any attempt at coercion in private conduct will merely produce
rebellion on the part of the individual coerced. Moreover, when
society interferes with purely personal conduct, the odds are that it
interferes wrongly, and in the wrong places, as the pages of history
and the records of legislation abundantly demonstrate.

Closely connected with the question of the limitations of the
authority of society over the individual is the question of government
participation in industrial and other enterprises generally undertaken
by individuals.

There are three main objections to the interference of the state in
such matters. In the first place, the matter may be better managed
by individuals than by the government. In the second place, though
individuals may not do it so well as government might, yet it is
desirable that they should do it, as a means of their own mental
education. In the third place, it is undesirable to add to the power
of the government. If roads, railways, banks, insurance offices, great
joint-stock companies, universities, public charities, municipal
corporations, and local boards were all in the government service,
and if the employees in these look to the government for promotion,
not all the freedom of the Press and the popular constitution of the
legislature would make this or any other country free otherwise than
in name. And, for various reasons, the better qualified the heads and
hands of the government officials, the more detrimental would the rule
of the government be. Such a government would inevitably degenerate
into a pedantocracy monopolising all the occupations which form and
cultivate the faculties required for the government of mankind.

To find the best compromise between individuals and the state is
difficult, but I believe the ideal must combine the greatest possible
dissemination of power consistent with efficiency, and the greatest
possible centralisation and diffusion of information.




JOHN MILTON

Areopagitica

  It has been said of "Areopagitica, a Speech of Mr. John Milton
  for the Liberty of Unlicensed Printing to the Parliament of
  England," that it is "the piece that lies more surely than
  any other at the very heart of our prose literature." In 1637
  the Star Chamber issued a decree regulating the printing,
  circulation, and importation of books, and on June 14, 1643, the
  Long Parliament published an order in the same spirit. Milton
  (see Vol. XVII) felt that what had been done in the days of
  repression and tyranny was being continued under the reign of
  liberty, and that the time for protest had arrived. Liberty was
  the central principle of Milton's faith. He regarded it as the
  most potent, beneficent, and sacred factor in human progress; and
  he applied it all round--to literature, religion, marriage, and
  civic life. His "Areopagitica," published in November, 1644, was
  an application of the principle to literature that has remained
  unanswered. The word "Areopagitica" is derived from Areopagus,
  the celebrated open-air court in Athens, whose decision in
  matters of public importance was regarded as final.


_I.--The Right of Appeal_

It is not a liberty which we can hope, that no grievance ever should
arise in the Commonwealth--that let no man in this world expect; but
when complaints are freely heard, deeply considered, and speedily
reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise
men look for. To which we are already in good part arrived; and this
will be attributed first to the strong assistance of God our Deliverer,
next to your faithful guidance and undaunted wisdom, Lords and Commons
of England.

If I should thus far presume upon the meek demeanour of your civil and
gentle greatness, Lords and Commons, as to gainsay what your published
Order hath directly said, I might defend myself with ease out of those
ages to whose polite wisdom and letters we owe that we are not yet
Goths and Jutlanders. Such honour was done in those days to men who
professed the study of wisdom and eloquence that cities and signiories
heard them gladly, and with great respect, if they had aught in public
to admonish the state.

When your prudent spirit acknowledges and obeys the voice of reason
from what quarter soever it be heard speaking, I know not what
should withhold me from presenting ye with a fit instance wherein
to show, both that love of truth which ye eminently profess, and
that uprightness of your judgment which is not wont to be partial to
yourselves, by judging over again that Order which ye have ordained to
regulate printing: that no book, pamphlet, or paper shall be henceforth
printed unless the same be first approved and licensed by such, or at
least one of such, as shall be thereto appointed.

I shall lay before ye, first, that the inventors of licensing books
be those whom ye will be loth to own; next, what is to be thought in
general of reading, whatever sort the books be; last, that it will
be primely to the discouragement of all learning and the stop of
truth. I deny not that it is of greatest concernment in the Church and
commonwealth to have a vigilant eye how books demean themselves, as
well as men. For books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a
potency of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose progeny
they are.

Nay, they do preserve as in a vial the purest efficacy and extraction
of that living intellect that bred them. I know they are as lively and
as vigorously productive as those fabulous dragon's teeth; and, being
sown up and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And yet, on the
other hand, unless wariness be used, as good almost kill a man as kill
a good book. Many a man lives a burden to the earth; but a good book is
the precious life-blood of a master spirit, embalmed and treasured up
on purpose to life beyond life. 'Tis true, no age can restore a life,
whereof perhaps there is no great loss; and revolutions of ages do not
oft recover the loss of a rejected truth, for the want of which whole
nations fare the worse.

We should be wary, therefore, how we spill that seasoned life of man,
preserved and stored up in books, since we see a kind of homicide may
be thus committed, that strikes at that ethereal essence, the breath of
reason itself, and slays an immortality rather than a life.


_II.--The History of Repression_

In Athens, where books and wits were ever busier than in any other part
of Greece, I find but only two sorts of writings which the magistrate
cared to take notice of--those either blasphemous and atheistical, or
libellous. The Romans, for many ages trained up only to a military
roughness, knew of learning little. There libellous authors were
quickly cast into prison, and the like severity was used if aught were
impiously written. Except in these two points, how the world went in
books the magistrate kept no reckoning.

By the time the emperors were become Christians, the books of those
whom they took to be grand heretics were examined, refuted, and
condemned in the general councils, and not till then were prohibited.

As for the writings of heathen authors, unless they were plain
invectives against Christianity, they met with no interdict that can
be cited till about the year 400. The primitive councils and bishops
were wont only to declare what books were not commendable, passing no
further till after the year 800, after which time the popes of Rome
extended their dominion over men's eyes, as they had before over their
judgments, burning and prohibiting to be read what they fancied not,
till Martin V. by his Bull not only prohibited, but was the first
that excommunicated the reading of heretical books; for about that
time Wickliffe and Huss, growing terrible, drove the papal court to a
stricter policy of prohibiting. To fill up the measure of encroachment,
their last invention was to ordain that no book, pamphlet, or paper
should be printed (as if St. Peter had bequeathed them the keys of the
press also out of Paradise), unless it were approved and licensed under
the hands of two or three glutton friars.

Not from any ancient state or polity or church, nor by any statute
left us by our ancestors, but from the most tyrannous Inquisition have
ye this book-licensing. Till then books were as freely admitted into
the world as any other birth. No envious Juno sat cross-legged over
the nativity of any man's intellectual offspring. That ye like not now
these most certain authors of this licensing Order, all men who know
the integrity of your actions will clear ye readily.


_III.--The Futility of Prohibition_

But some will say, "What though the inventors were bad, the thing, for
all that, may be good?" It may be so, yet I am of those who believe it
will be a harder alchemy than Lullius ever knew to sublimate any good
use out of such an invention.

Good and evil in the field of this world grow up together almost
inseparably. As the state of man now is, what wisdom can there be to
choose, what continence to forbear, without the knowledge of evil?
I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and
unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks
out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not
without dust and heat. That which purifies us is trial, and trial is
by what is contrary. And how can we more safely, and with less danger
scout into the regions of sin and falsity than by reading all manner of
tractates and hearing all manner of reason? And this is the benefit
which may be had of books promiscuously read.

'Tis next alleged we must not expose ourselves to temptations without
necessity, and next to that, not employ our time in vain things. To
both these objections one answer will serve--that to all men such books
are not temptations, nor vanities, but useful drugs and materials
wherewith to temper and compose effective and strong medicines. The
rest, as children and childish men, who have not the art to qualify
and prepare these working minerals, well may be exhorted to forbear,
but hindered forcibly they cannot be by all the licensing that sainted
Inquisition could ever yet contrive.

This Order of licensing conduces nothing to the end for which it was
framed. If we think to regulate printing, thereby to rectify manners,
we must regulate all recreations and pastimes, all that is delightful
to man. No music must be heard, no song be set or sung, but what is
grave and Doric. There must be licensing dancers, that no gesture,
motion, or deportment be taught our youth but what by their allowance
shall be thought honest. Our garments, also, should be referred to
the licensing of some more sober workmasters to see them cut into a
less wanton garb. Who shall regulate all the mixed conversation of our
youth? Who shall still appoint what shall be discoursed, what presumed,
and no further? Lastly, who shall forbid and separate all idle resort,
all evil company? If every action which is good or evil in man at ripe
years were to be under pittance and prescription and compulsion, what
were virtue but a name?

When God gave Adam reason, he gave him reason to choose, for reason is
but choosing. Wherefore did he create passions within us, pleasures
round about us, but that these rightly tempered are the very
ingredients of virtue?

Why should we then affect a rigour contrary to the manner of God and
of nature, by abridging or scanting those means which books freely
permitted are both to the trial of virtue and the exercise of truth?


_IV.--An Indignity to Learning_

I lastly proceed from the no good it can do to the manifest hurt
it causes in being, first, the greatest discouragement and affront
that can be offered to learning and to learned men. If ye be loth to
dishearten utterly and discontent the free and ingenuous sort of such
as were born to study, and love learning for itself, not for lucre or
any other end but the service of God and of truth, and perhaps that
lasting fame and perpetuity of praise which God and good men have
consented shall be the reward of those whose published labours advance
the good of mankind, then know that so far to distrust the judgment and
the honesty of one who hath but a common repute in learning, and never
yet offended, as not to count him fit to print his mind without a tutor
and examiner, is the greatest displeasure and indignity to a free and
knowing spirit that can be put upon him.

When a man writes to the world he summons up all his reason and
deliberation to assist him; he searches, meditates, is industrious, and
likely consults and confers with his judicious friends. If in this,
the most consummate act of his fidelity and ripeness, no years, no
industry, no former proof of his abilities can bring him to that state
of maturity as not to be still mistrusted and suspected, unless he
carry all his considerate diligence to the hasty view of an unleisured
licenser, perhaps much his younger, perhaps far his inferior in
judgment, perhaps one who never knew the labour of book-writing, and if
he be not repulsed or slighted, must appear in print with his censor's
hand on the back of his title, to be his bail and surety that he is no
idiot or seducer, it cannot be but a dishonour and derogation to the
author, to the book, to the privilege and dignity of learning.

And, further, to me it seems an undervaluing and vilifying of the whole
nation. I cannot set so light by all the invention, the art, the wit,
the grave and solid judgment which is in England, as that it can be
comprehended in any twenty capacities how good soever, much less that
it should not pass except their superintendence be over it, except
it be sifted and strained with their strainers, that it should be
uncurrent without their manual stamp. Truth and understanding are not
such wares as to be monopolised and traded in by tickets and statutes
and standards.

Lords and Commons of England, consider what nation it is whereof ye
are, and whereof ye are the governors--a nation not slow and dull, but
of a quick, ingenious and piercing spirit, acute to invent, subtle and
sinewy to discourse, not beneath the reach of any point the highest
that human capacity can soar to. Is it for nothing that the grave and
frugal Transylvanian sends out yearly from as far as the mountainous
borders of Russia, and beyond the Hercynian wilderness, not their
youth, but their staid men, to learn our language and our theologic
arts? By all concurrence of signs, and by the general instinct of holy
and devout men, God is decreeing to begin some new and great period in
His Church, even to the reforming of Reformation itself. What does He,
then, but reveal Himself to His servants, and as His manner is, first
to His Englishmen?

Behold now this vast city--a city of refuge, the mansion house of
liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection. The shop of
war hath not there more anvils and hammers waking to fashion out the
plates and instruments of armed justice in defence of beleaguered
truth than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious
lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and ideas wherewith
to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching
Reformation; others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting
to the force of reason and convincement. What could a man require
more from a nation so pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge?
Where there is much desire to learn, there, of necessity, will be
much arguing, much writing, many opinions; for opinion in good men
is but knowledge in the making. A little generous prudence, a little
forbearance of one another, and some grain of charity might win all
these diligencies to join and unite in one general search after
truth, could we but forego this prelatical tradition of crowding free
consciences and Christian liberties into canons and precepts of men.

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself
like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks.
Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling
her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam; purging and unsealing her
long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while
the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that
love the twilight, flutter about, amazed at what she means, and in
their envious gabble would prognosticate a year of sects and schisms.

What should ye do then? Should ye suppress all this flowery crop
of knowledge and new light? Should ye set an oligarchy of twenty
engrossers over it, to bring a famine upon our minds again, when we
shall know nothing but what is measured to us by their bushel? Believe
it, Lords and Commons, they who counsel ye to such a suppressing do
as good as bid ye suppress yourselves. If it be desired to know the
immediate cause of all this free writing and free speaking, there
cannot be assigned a truer than your own mild, and free, and humane
government. It is the liberty, Lords and Commons, which our own
valorous and happy counsels have purchased us, liberty, which is the
nurse of all great wits. Give me the liberty to know, to utter, and to
argue freely according to conscience above all liberties. And though
all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so
Truth be in the field, we do injuriously, by licensing and prohibiting,
to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple. Whoever knew
Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter? For who knows not
that Truth is strong, next to the Almighty? She needs no policies, nor
stratagems, nor licensing to make her victorious. Those are the shifts
and defences that error uses against her power. Give her but room, and
do not bind her when she sleeps.




PLUTARCH

Parallel Lives

  Little is known of the life of Plutarch, greatest of biographers.
  He was born about 50 A.D., at Chæronea, in Bœotia, Greece, the
  son of a learned and virtuous father. He studied philosophy
  under Ammonius at Delphi, and on his return to his native city
  became a priest of Apollo, and archon, or chief magistrate.
  Plutarch wrote many philosophical works, which are enumerated by
  his son Lamprias, but are no longer extant. We have about fifty
  biographies, which are called "parallel" because of the method
  by which Plutarch, after giving separately the lives of two or
  more people, proceeds to compare them with one another. The
  "Lives" were translated into French in Henry II.'s reign, and
  into English in the time of Elizabeth. They have been exceedingly
  popular at every period, and many authors, including Shakespeare,
  have owed much to them. Plutarch died about 120 A.D.


_I.--Lycurgus and Numa_

According to the best authors, Lycurgus, the law-giver, reigned only
for eight months as king of Sparta, until the widow of the late king,
his brother, had given birth to a son, whom he named Charilaus. He
then travelled for some years in Crete, Asia, and possibly also in
Egypt, Libya, Spain, and India, studying governments and manners; and
returning to Sparta, he set himself to alter the whole constitution of
that kingdom, with the encouragement of the oracles and the favour of
Charilaus.

The first institution was a senate of twenty-eight members, whose place
it was to strengthen the throne when the people encroached too far, and
to support the people when the king should attempt to become absolute.
Occasional popular assemblies, in the open air, were to be called, not
to propose any subject of debate, but only to ratify or reject the
proposals of the senate and the two kings.

His second political enterprise was a new division of the lands, for
he found a prodigious inequality, wealth being centred in the hands of
a few; and by this reform Laconia became like an estate newly divided
among many brothers. Each plot of land was sufficient to maintain a
family in health, and they wanted nothing more.

Then, desiring also to equalise property in movable objects, he
resorted to the device of doing away with gold and silver currency, and
establishing an iron coinage, of which great bulk and weight went to
but little value. He excluded all unprofitable and superfluous arts;
and the Spartans soon had no means of purchasing foreign wares, nor did
any merchant ship unlade in their harbours. Luxury died away of itself,
and the workmanship of their necessary and useful furniture rose to
great excellence.

Public tables were now established, where all must eat in common of
the same frugal meal; whereby hardiness and health of body and mutual
benevolence of mind were alike promoted. There were about fifteen to
a table, to which each contributed in provisions or in money; the
conversation was liberal and well-informed, and salted with pleasant
raillery.

Lycurgus left no law in writing; he depended on principles pervading
the customs of the people; and he reduced the whole business of
legislation into the bringing up of the young. And in this matter
he began truly at the beginning, by regulating marriages. The man
unmarried after the prescribed age was prosecuted and disgraced; and
the father of four children was immune from taxation.

Lycurgus considered the children as the property of the state rather
than of the parents, and derided the vanity of other nations, who
studied to have horses of the finest breed, yet had their children
begotten by ordinary persons rather than by the best and healthiest
men. At birth, the children were carried to be examined by the oldest
men in council, who had the weaklings thrown away into a cavern, and
gave orders for the education of the sturdy.

As for learning, they had just what was necessary and no more, their
education being directed chiefly to making them obedient, laborious,
and warlike. They went barefoot, and for the most part naked. They were
trained to steal with astuteness, to suffer pain and hunger, and to
express themselves without an unnecessary word. Dignified poetry and
music were encouraged. To the end of his life, the Spartan was kept
ever in mind that he was born, not for himself, but for his country;
the city was like one great camp, where each had his stated allowance
and his stated public charge.

Let us turn now to Numa Pompilius, the great law-giver of the
Romans. A Sabine of illustrious virtue and great simplicity of life,
he was elected to be king after the interregnum which followed on
the disappearance of Romulus. He had spent much time in solitary
wanderings in the sacred groves and other retired places; and there,
it is reported, the goddess Egeria communicated to him a happiness and
knowledge more than mortal.

Numa was in his fortieth year, and was not easily persuaded to
undertake the Roman kingdom. But his disinclination was overcome, and
he was received with loud acclamations as the most pious of men and
most beloved of the gods. His first act was to discharge the body-guard
provided for him, and to appoint a priest for the cult of Romulus. But
his great task was to soften the Romans, as iron is softened by fire,
and to bring them from a violent and warlike disposition to a juster
and more gentle temper. For Rome was composed at first of most hardy
and resolute men, inveterate warriors.

To reduce this people to mildness and peace, he called in the
assistance of religion. By sacrifices, solemn dances, and processions,
wherein he himself officiated, he mixed the charms of festal pleasure
with holy ritual.

He founded the hierarchy of priests, the vestal virgins, and several
other sacred orders; and passed most of his time in performing some
religious function or in conversing with the priests on some divine
subject. And by all this discipline the people became so tractable,
and were so impressed with Numa's power, that they would believe the
most fabulous tales, and thought nothing impossible which he undertook.
Numa further introduced agriculture, and fostered it as an incentive to
peace; he distributed the citizens of Rome into guilds, or companies,
according to their several arts and trades; he reformed the calendar,
and did many other services to his people.

Comparing, now, Lycurgus and Numa, we find that their resemblances are
obvious--their wisdom, piety, talent for government, and their deriving
their laws from a divine source. Of their distinctions, the chief is
that Numa accepted, but Lycurgus relinquished, a crown; and as it was
an honour to the former to attain royal dignity by his justice, so it
was an honour to the latter to prefer justice to that dignity. Again,
Lycurgus tuned up the strings of Sparta, which he found relaxed with
luxury, to a keener pitch; Numa, on the contrary, softened the high and
harsh tone of Rome. Both were equally studious to lead their people
to sobriety, but Lycurgus was more attached to fortitude and Numa to
justice.

Though Numa put an end to the gain of rapine, he made no provision
against the accumulation of great fortunes, nor against poverty, which
then began to spread within the city. He ought rather to have watched
against these dangers, for they gave birth to the many troubles that
befell the Roman state.


_II.--Aristides and Cato_

Aristides had a close friendship with Clisthenes, who established
popular government in Athens after the expulsion of the tyrants; yet
he had at the same time a great veneration for Lycurgus of Sparta,
whom he regarded as supreme among law-givers; and this led him to
be a supporter of aristocracy, in which he was always opposed by
Themistocles, the democrat. The latter was insinuating, daring, artful,
and impetuous, but Aristides was solid and steady, inflexibly just, and
incapable of flattery or deceit.

Neither elated by honour nor disheartened by ill success, Aristides
became deeply founded in the estimation of the best citizens. He
was appointed public treasurer, and showed up the peculations of
Themistocles and of others who had preceded him. When the fleet of
Darius was at Marathon, with a view to subjugating Greece, Miltiades
and Aristides were the Greek generals, who by custom were to command
by turns, day about; and Aristides freely gave up his command to the
other, to promote unity of discipline, and to give example of military
obedience. The next year he became archon. Though a poor man and a
commoner, Aristides won the royal and divine title of "the Just." At
first loved and respected for his surname "the Just," Aristides came to
be envied and dreaded for so extraordinary an honour, and the citizens
assembled from all the towns in Attica and banished him by ostracism,
cloaking their envy of his character under the pretence of guarding
against tyranny. Three years later they reversed this decree, fearing
lest Aristides should join the cause of Xerxes. They little knew the
man; even before his recall he had been inciting the Greeks to defend
their liberty.

In the great battle of Platæa, Aristides was in command of the
Athenians; Pausanias, commander-in-chief of all the confederates,
joined him there with the Spartans. The opposing Persian army covered
an immense area. In the engagements which took place the Greeks behaved
with the utmost firmness, and at last stormed the Persian camp, with
a prodigious slaughter of the enemy. When, later, Aristides was
entrusted with the task of assessing the cities of the allies for a
tax towards the war, and was thus clothed with an authority which made
him master of Greece, though he set out poor he returned yet poorer,
having arranged the burden with equal justice and humanity. In fact, he
esteemed his poverty no less a glory than all the laurels he had won.

The Roman counterpart of Aristides was Cato; which name he received
for his wisdom, for Romans call wise men Catos. Marcus Cato, the
censor, came of an obscure family, yet his father and grandfather were
excellent soldiers. He lived on an estate which his father left him
near the Sabine country. With red hair and grey eyes, his appearance
was such, says an epigram, as to scare the spirits of the departed.
Inured to labour and temperance, he had the sound constitution of one
brought up in camps; and he had practised eloquence as a necessary
instrument for one who would mix with affairs. While still a lad he had
fought in so many battles that his breast was covered with scars; and
all who spoke with him noted a gravity of behaviour and a dignity of
sentiment such as to fit him for high responsibilities.

A powerful nobleman, Valerius Flaccus, whose estate was near Cato's
home, heard his servants praise their neighbour's laborious life.
He sent for Cato, and, charmed with his sweet temper and ready wit,
persuaded him to go to Rome and apply himself to political affairs. His
rise was rapid; he became tribune of the soldiers, then quæstor, and at
last was the colleague of Valerius both as consul and as censor.

Cato's eloquence brought him the epithet of the Roman Demosthenes, but
he was even more celebrated for his manner of living. Few were willing
to imitate him in the ancient custom of tilling the ground with his own
hands, in eating a dinner prepared without fire, and a spare, frugal
supper; few thought it more honourable not to want superfluities than
to possess them. By reason of its vast dominions, the commonwealth had
lost its pristine purity and integrity; the citizens were frightened
at labour and enervated by pleasure. But Cato never wore a costly
garment nor partook of an elaborate meal; even when consul he drank
the same wine as his servants. He thought nothing cheap that is
superfluous. Some called him mean and narrow, others thought that he
was setting an object-lesson to the growing luxury of the age. For my
part, I think that his custom of using his servants like beasts of
burden, and of turning them off or selling them when grown old, was the
mark of an ungenerous spirit, which thinks that the sole tie between
man and man is interest or necessity. For my own part, I would not sell
even an old ox that had laboured for me.

However that may be, his temperance was wonderful. When governor of
Sardinia, where his predecessors had put the province to great expense,
he did not even use a carriage, but walked from town to town with
one attendant. He was inexorable in everything that concerned public
justice. He proved himself a brave general in the field; and when
he became censor, which was the highest dignity of the republic, he
waged an uncompromising campaign against luxury, by means of an almost
prohibitive tax on the expenditure of ostentatious superfluity. His
style in speaking was at once humorous, familiar, and forcible, and
many of his wise and pregnant sayings are remembered.

When we compare Aristides and Cato, we are at once struck by many
resemblances; and examining the several parts of their lives
distinctly, as we examine a poem or a picture, we find that they both
rose to great honour without the help of family connections, and merely
by their own virtue and abilities. Both of them were equally victorious
in war; but in politics Aristides was less successful, being banished
by the faction of Themistocles; while Cato, though his antagonists
were the most powerful men in Rome, kept his footing to the end like a
skilled wrestler.

Again, Cato was no less attentive to the management of his domestic
affairs than he was to affairs of state, and not only increased his own
fortune, but became a guide to others in finance and in agriculture.
But Aristides, by his indigence, brought disgrace upon justice itself,
as if it were the ruin and impoverishment of families; it is even said
that he left not enough for the portions of his daughters nor for the
expenses of his own funeral. So Cato's family produced prætors and
consuls to the fourth generation; but of the descendants of Aristides
some were conjurors and paupers, and not one of them had a sentiment
worthy of his illustrious ancestor.


_III.--Demosthenes and Cicero_

That these two great orators were originally formed by nature in the
same mould is shown by the similarity of their dispositions. They had
the same ambition, the same love of liberty, and the same timidity
in war and danger. Their fortunes also were similar; both raised
themselves from obscure beginnings to authority and power; both opposed
kings and tyrants; both of them were banished, then returned with
honour, were forced to fly again, and were taken by their enemies; and
with both of them expired the liberties of their countries.

Demosthenes, while a weakly child of seven years, lost his father, and
his fortune was dissipated by unworthy guardians. But his ambition
was fired in early years by hearing the pleadings of the orator
Callistratus, and by noting the honours which attended success in that
profession. He at once applied himself to the practice of declamation,
and studied rhetoric under Isæus; and as soon as he came of age he
appeared at the Bar in the prosecution of his guardians for their
embezzlements. Though successful in this claim, Demosthenes had much to
learn, and his earlier speeches provoked the amusement of his audience.
His manner was at once violent and confused, his voice weak and
stammering, and his delivery breathless; but these faults were overcome
by an arduous and protracted course of exercise in the subterraneous
study which he had built, where he would remain for two or three months
together. He corrected the stammering by speaking with pebbles in his
mouth; strengthened his voice by running uphill and declaiming while
still unbreathed; and his attitude and gestures were studied before a
mirror.

Demosthenes was rarely heard to speak extempore, and though the people
called upon him in the assembly, he would sit silent unless he had come
prepared. He wrote a great part, if not the whole, of each oration
beforehand, so that it was objected that his arguments "smelled of the
lamp"; yet, on exceptional occasions, he would speak unprepared, and
then as if from a supernatural impulse.

His nature was vindictive and his resentment implacable. He was never
a time-server in word or in action, and he maintained to the end the
political standpoint with which he had begun. The glorious object of
his ambition was the defence of the cause of Greece against Philip;
and most of his orations, including these Philippics, are written
upon the principle that the right and worthy course is to be chosen
for its own sake. He does not exhort his countrymen to that which is
most agreeable, or easy, or advantageous, but to that which is most
honourable. If, besides this noble ambition of his and the lofty tone
of his orations, he had been gifted also with warlike courage and had
kept his hands clean from bribes, Demosthenes would have deserved to be
numbered with Cimon, Thucydides, and Pericles.

Cicero's wonderful genius came to light even in his school-days; he
had the capacity and inclination to learn all the arts, but was most
inclined to poetry, and the time came when he was reputed the best
poet as well as the greatest orator in Rome. After a training in law
and some experience of the wars, he retired to a life of philosophic
study, but being persuaded to appear in the courts for Roscius, who was
unjustly charged with the murder of his father, Cicero immediately made
his reputation as an orator.

His health was weak; he could eat but little, and that only late in
the day; his voice was harsh, loud, and ill regulated; but, like
Demosthenes, he was able by assiduous practice to modulate his
enunciation to a full, sonorous, and sweet tone, and his studies under
the leading rhetoricians of Greece and Asia perfected his eloquence.

His diligence, justice, and moderation were evidenced by his conduct
in public offices, as quæstor, prætor, and then as consul. In his
attack on Catiline's conspiracy, he showed the Romans what charms
eloquence can add to truth, and that justice is invincible when
properly supported. But his immoderate love of praise interrupted his
best designs, and he made himself obnoxious to many by continually
magnifying himself.

Demosthenes, by concentrating all his powers on the single art of
speaking, became unrivalled in the power, grandeur, and accuracy of
his eloquence. Cicero's studies had a wider range; he strove to excel
not only as an orator, but as a philosopher and a scholar also. Their
difference of temperament is reflected in their styles. Demosthenes is
always grave and serious, an austere man of thought; Cicero, on the
other hand, loves his jest, and is sometimes playful to the point of
buffoonery. The Greek orator never touches upon his own praise except
with some great point in view, and then does it modestly and without
offence; the Roman does not seek to hide his intemperate vanity.

Both of these men had high political abilities; but while the former
held no public office, and lies under the suspicion of having at times
sold his talent to the highest bidder, the latter ruled provinces as a
pro-consul at a time when avarice reigned unbridled, and became known
only for his humanity and his contempt of money.




MADAME DE STAËL

On Germany

  Madame de Staël's book "On Germany" (De l'Allemagne) was finished
  in 1810. The manuscript was passed by the censor, and partly
  printed, when the whole impression was seized by the order of the
  Emperor and destroyed. Madame de Staël herself escaped secretly,
  and came eventually to London, where, in 1813, the work was
  published. She did not long survive the fall of her tremendous
  enemy, Napoleon, but died in her beloved Paris on July 14, 1817.
  When it is considered that "On Germany" was written by other
  than an inhabitant of the country, and that Madame de Staël did
  not travel far beyond her own residences at Mainz, Frankfort,
  Berlin, and Vienna, the work may be reckoned the most remarkable
  performance of its kind in literature or biography (Mme. de
  Staël, biography: see Vol. VIII, p. 89).


_I.--Germany, Its People and Customs_

The multitude and extent of the forests indicate a still new
civilisation. Germany still shows traces of uninhabited nature. It is
a sad country, and time is needed to discover what there is to love in
it. The ruined castles on the hills, the narrow windows of the houses,
the long stretches of snow in winter, the silence of nature and men,
all contribute towards the sadness. Yet the country and its inhabitants
are interesting and poetical. You feel that human souls and imagination
have embellished this land.

The only remarkable monuments in Germany are the Gothic ones which
recall the age of chivalry. Modern German architecture is not worth
mentioning, but the towns are well built, and the people try to make
their houses look as cheerful and pleasing as possible. The gardens
in some parts of Germany are almost as beautiful as in England, which
denotes love of nature. Often, in the midst of the superb gardens of
the German princes, æolian harps are placed; the breezes waft sound
and scent at once. Thus northern imagination tries to construct Italian
nature.

The Germans are generally sincere and faithful; they scarcely ever
break their word and are strangers to deception. Power of work and
thought is another of their national traits. They are naturally
literary and philosophical, but their pride of class affects in some
ways their _esprit_ adversely. The nobles are lacking in ideas, and
the men of letters know too little about business. The Germans have
imagination rather than _esprit_.

The town dwellers and the country folk, the soldiers and the
workmen, nearly all have some knowledge of music. I have been to
some poor houses, blackened with tobacco smoke, and not only the
mistress, but also the master of the house, improvise on the piano,
just as the Italians improvise in verse. Instrumental music is as
generally fostered in Germany as vocal music is in Italy. Italy has
the advantage, because instrumental music requires work, whilst the
southern sky suffices to produce beautiful voices.

Peasant women and servants, who are too poor to put on finery, decorate
their hair with a few flowers, so that imagination may at least enter
into their attire.

One is constantly struck in Germany with the contrast between sentiment
and custom, between talent and taste; civilisation and nature do not
seem to have properly amalgamated yet. Enthusiasm for art and poetry
goes with very vulgar habits in social life. Nothing could be more
bizarre than the combination of the warlike aspect of Germany, where
soldiers are met at every step, with the indoor life led by the people.
There is a dread of fatigue and change of air, as if the nation were
composed only of shopkeepers and men of letters; and yet all the
institutions tend towards giving the nation military habits.

Stoves, beer, and tobacco-smoke crate around the German people a kind
of heavy and hot atmosphere which they do not like to leave. This
atmosphere is injurious to activity, which is at least as necessary
in war as in courage; resolutions are slow, discouragement is easy,
because a generally sad existence does not engender much confidence in
fortune.

Three motive powers lead men to fight: love of the fatherland and
of liberty, love of glory, and religious fanaticism. There is not
much love of the fatherland in an Empire that has been divided for
centuries, where Germans fought against Germans; love of glory is not
very lively where there is no centre, no capital, no society. The
Germans are much more apt to get roused by abstract ideas than by the
interests of life.

The love of liberty is not developed with the Germans; they have learnt
neither by enjoyment, nor by privation, the prize that may be attached
to it. The very independence enjoyed by Germany in all respects made
the Germans indifferent to liberty; independence is a possession,
liberty a guarantee, and just because nobody was crossed in Germany
either in his rights or in his pleasures, nobody felt the need for an
order of things that would maintain this happiness.

The Germans, with few exceptions, are scarcely capable of succeeding
in anything that requires cleverness and skill; everything troubles
them, makes them nervous, and they need method in action as well as
independence in thought.

German women have a charm of their own, a touching quality of voice,
fair hair, and brilliant complexion; they are modest, but not as shy
as the English. One can see that they have often met men who were
superior to them, and that they have less cause to fear the severity of
public judgment. They try to please by their sensibility, and to arouse
interest by the imagination. The language of poetry and of the fine
arts is known to them; they flirt with enthusiasm, just as one flirts
in France with _esprit_ and wit.

Love is a religion in Germany, but a poetic religion, which willingly
tolerates all that may be excused by sensibility. The facility of
divorce in the Protestant provinces certainly affects the sanctity of
marriage. Husbands are changed as peacefully as if it were merely a
question of arranging the incidents of a play. The good-nature of men
and women prevents any bitterness entering these easy ruptures.

Some German women are ever in a state of exaltation that amounts to
affectation, and the sweet expressions of which efface whatever there
may be piquant or pronounced in their mind and character. They are not
frank, and yet not false either; but they see and judge nothing with
truth, and the real events pass before their eyes like phantasmagoria.

But these women are the exception. Many German women have true
sentiment and simple manners. Their careful education and natural
purity of soul renders their dominion gentle and moderate; every day
they inspire you with increased interest for all that is great and
noble, with increased confidence in every kind of hope. What is rare
among German women is real _esprit_ and quick repartee. Conversation,
as a talent, exists only in France; in other countries it only serves
for polite intercourse, for discussion and for friendship; in France it
is an art.


_II.--On Southern Germany and Austria_

Franconia, Suabia, and Bavaria were, before the foundation of the
Munich Academy, strangely heavy and monotonous countries; no arts
except music, little literature; an accent that did not lend itself
well to the pronunciation of the Latin languages, no society; great
parties that resembled ceremonies rather than amusement; obsequious
politeness towards an unelegant aristocracy; kindness and loyalty in
all classes, but a certain smiling stiffness which is neither ease nor
dignity. In a country where society counts for nothing, and nature for
little, only the literary towns can be really interesting.

A temperate climate is not favourable for poetry. Where the climate
is neither severe nor beautiful, one lives without fearing or hoping
anything from heaven, and one only takes interest in the positive facts
of existence. Southern Germany, temperate in every respect, keeps up a
state of monotonous well-being which is as bad for business activity as
it is for the activity of the mind. The keenest wish of the inhabitants
of that peaceful and fertile country is to continue the same existence.
And what can one do with that one desire? It is not even enough to
preserve that with which one is contented.

There are many excellent things in Austria, but few really superior
men, because in that country it is not much use to excel one's
neighbour; one is not envied for it, but forgotten, which is still more
discouraging. Ambition turns in the direction of obtaining good posts.

Austria, embracing so many different peoples, Bohemians, Hungarians,
etc., has not the unity necessary for a monarchy. Yet the great
moderation of the heads of the state has for a long time constituted a
strong link.

Industry, good living and domestic pleasures are Austria's principal
interests. In spite of the glory she gained by the perseverance and
valour of her troops, the military spirit has really never got hold of
all classes of the nation.

In a country where every movement is difficult, and where everything
inspires tranquility, the slightest obstacle is an excuse for complete
idleness of action and thought. One might say that this is real
happiness; but does happiness consist of the faculties which one
develops, or of those which one chokes?

Vienna is situated in a plain amid picturesque hills. It is an old
town, very small, but surrounded by very spacious suburbs. It is said
that the city proper within the fortifications is no larger than it
was when Richard Cœur-de-Lion was put into prison not far from its
gates. The streets are as narrow as in Italy; the palaces recall a
little those of Florence; in fine, nothing here resembles the rest of
Germany except a few Gothic buildings, which bring back the Middle Ages
to the imagination. First among these is the tower of St. Stephen's,
around which somehow centres the whole history of Austria. No building
can be as patriotic as a church--the only one in which all classes of
the population meet, the only one which recalls not only the public
events, but also the secret thoughts, the intimate affections which the
rulers and the citizens have brought within its precincts.

Every great city has some building, or promenade, some work of art
or nature, to which the recollections of childhood are attached. It
seems to me that the _Prater_ should have this charm for the Viennese.
No other city can match this splendid promenade through woods and
deer-stocked meadows. The daily promenade at a fixed hour is an Italian
custom. Such regularity would be impossible in a country where the
pleasures are as varied as in Paris; but the Viennese could never do
without it. Society folk in their carriages and the people on their
feet assemble here every evening. It is in the Prater that one is most
struck with the easy life and the prosperity of the Viennese. Vienna
has the uncontested reputation of consuming more food than any other
equally populous city. You can see whole families of citizens and
artisans starting for the Prater at five o'clock for a rustic meal as
substantial as dinner in any other country, and the money they are able
to spend on it proves their industry and kindly rule.

At night thousands of people return, without disorder, without
quarrel. You can scarcely hear a voice, so silently do they take their
pleasures. It is not due to sadness, but to laziness and physical
well-being. Society is here with magnificent horses and carriages.
Their whole amusement is to recognise in a Prater avenue the friends
they have just left in a drawing-room. The emperor and his brothers
take their place in the long row of carriages, and prefer to be
considered just as ordinary private people. They only use their rights
when they are performing their duties. You never see a beggar: the
charity institutions are admirably managed. And there are very few
mortal crimes in Austria. Everything in this country bears the impress
of a paternal, wise, and religious government.


_III.--On the German Language_

Germany is better suited for prose than for poetry, and the prose is
better written than spoken; it is an excellent instrument if you wish
to describe or to say everything; but you cannot playfully pass from
subject to subject as you can in French. If you would adapt the German
words to the French style of conversation you would rob them altogether
of grace and dignity. The merit of the Germans is to fill their time
well; the talent of the French is to make us forget time.

Although the sense of German sentences is frequently only revealed at
the very end, the construction does not always permit to close a phrase
with the most piquant expression, which is one of the great means to
make conversation effective. You rarely hear among the Germans what
is known as a _bon-mot_; you have to admire the thought and not the
brilliant way in which it is expressed.

Brilliant expression is considered a kind of charlatanism by
the Germans, who take to abstract expression because it is more
conscientious and approaches more closely to the very essence of
truth. But conversation ought not to cause any trouble either to the
listener or to the speaker. As soon as conversation in Germany departs
from the ordinary interests of life it becomes too metaphysical;
there is nothing between the common and the sublime; and it is just
this intermediate region that is the proper sphere for the art of
conversation.


WEIMAR

Of all the German principalities, Weimar makes one best realise the
advantages of a small country, if the ruler is a man of fine intellect
who may try to please his subjects without losing their obedience. The
Duchess Louise of Saxe-Weimar is the true model of a woman destined
for high rank. The duke's military talents are highly esteemed; his
conversation is pointed and well considered; his intellect and his
mother's have attracted the most distinguished men of letters to
Weimar. Germany had for the first time a literary capital.

Herder had just died when I arrived at Weimar, but Wieland, Goethe,
and Schiller were still there. They can be judged from their works,
for their books bear a striking resemblance to their character and
conversation.

Life in small towns has never appealed to me. Man's intellect seems to
become narrow and woman's heart cold. One feels oppressed by the close
proximity of one's equals. All the actions of your life are minutely
examined in detail, until the ensemble of your character is no longer
understood. And the more your spirit is independent and elevated, the
less you can breathe within the narrow confines. This disagreeable
discomfort did not exist at Weimar, which was not a little town, but a
large castle. A chosen circle took a lively interest in every new art
production. Imagination, constantly stimulated by the conversation of
the poets, felt less need for those outside distractions which lighten
the burden of existence but often dissipates its forces. Weimar has
been called the Athens of Germany, and rightly so. It was the only
place where interest in the fine arts was, so to speak, rational and
served as fraternal link between the different ranks.


_IV.--Prussia_

To know Prussia, one has to study the character of Frederick II. A man
has created this empire which had not been favoured by nature, and
which has only become a power because a soldier has been its master.
There are two distinct men in Frederick II.: a German by nature, and a
Frenchman by education. All that the German did in a German kingdom has
left lasting traces; all that the Frenchman tried has been fruitless.

Frederick's great misfortune was that he had not enough respect
for religion and customs. His tastes were cynical. Frederick, in
liberating his subjects of what he called prejudices, stifled in
them their patriotism, for in order to get attached to a naturally
sombre and sterile country one must be ruled by very stern opinions
and principles. Frederick's predilection for war may be excused on
political grounds. His realm, as he took it over from his father, could
not exist, and aggrandisement was necessary for its preservation. He
had two and a half million subjects when he ascended the throne, and he
left six millions on his death.

One of his greatest wrongs was his share in the division of Poland.
Silesia was acquired by force of arms. Poland by Macchiavellian
conquest, "and one could never hope that subjects thus robbed should be
faithful to the juggler who called himself their sovereign."

Frederick II. wanted French literature to rule alone in his country,
and had no consideration for German literature, which, no doubt, was
then not as remarkable as it is to-day; but a German prince should
encourage all that is German. Frederick wanted to make Berlin resemble
Paris, and he flattered himself to have found among the French
refugees some writers of sufficient distinction to have a French
literature. Such hope was bound to be deceptive. Artificial culture
never prospers; a few individuals may fight against the natural
difficulties, but the masses will always follow their natural leaning.
Frederick did a real wrong to his country when he professed to despise
German genius.


BERLIN

Berlin is a large town, with wide, long, straight streets, beautiful
houses, and an orderly aspect; but as it has only recently been
rebuilt, it contains nothing to recall the past. No Gothic monument
exists among the modern dwellings, and this newly-formed country is in
no way interfered with by the past. But modern Berlin, with all its
beauty, does not impress me seriously. It tells nothing of the history
of the country or the character of its inhabitants; and these beautiful
new houses seem to be destined only for the comfortable gatherings of
business or industry. The most beautiful palaces of Berlin are built of
brick. Prussia's capital resembles Prussia herself; its buildings and
institutions have the age of one generation, and no more, because one
man alone is their creator.




THE "GERMANIA" OF TACITUS

Customs and Peoples of Germany

  "Germania," the full title of which is "Concerning the Geography,
  the Manners and Customs, and the Peoples of Germany," consists
  of forty-six sections, the first twenty-seven describing the
  characteristics of the peoples, their customs, beliefs, and
  institutions; the remaining nineteen dealing with the individual
  peculiarities of each separate tribe. As a record of the Teutonic
  tribes, written purely from an ethical and rhetorical standpoint,
  the work is of the utmost importance, and, on the whole, is
  regarded as trustworthy. Its weak point is its geography, details
  of which Tacitus (see Vol. XI, p. 156) no doubt gathered from
  hearsay. The main object of the work was not so much to compose
  a history of Germany, as to draw a comparison between the
  independence of the Northern peoples and the corrupt civilisation
  of contemporary Roman life. Possibly, also, Tacitus intended to
  sound a note of alarm.


_I.--Germany and the German Tribes_

The whole of Germany is thus bounded. It is separated from Gaul,
Rhætia, and Pannonia by the rivers Rhine and Danube; from Sarmatia and
Dacia by mutual fear, or by high mountains; the rest is encompassed by
the ocean, which forms vast bays and contains many large islands. The
Rhine, rising from a rocky summit in the Rhætian Alps, winds westward,
and is lost in the northern ocean. The Danube, issuing from Mount
Abnoba, traverses several countries and finally falls into the Euxine.

I believe that the population is indigenous to Germany, and that the
nation is free from foreign admixture. They affirm Germany to be a
recent word, lately bestowed on those who first passed the Rhine and
repulsed the Gauls. From one tribe the whole nation has thus been
named. They cherish a tradition that Hercules had been in their
country, and him they extol in their battle songs. Some are of opinion
that Ulysses also, during his long wanderings, was carried into this
ocean and entered Germany, and that he founded the city Asciburgium,
which stands at this day upon the bank of the Rhine. Such traditions I
purpose myself neither to confirm nor to refute; but I agree with those
who maintain that the Germans have never intermingled by marriages with
other nations, but have remained a pure, independent people, resembling
none but themselves.

With whatever differences in various districts, their territory mainly
consists of gloomy forests or insalubrious marshes, lower and more
humid towards Gaul, more hilly and bleak towards Noricum and Pannonia.
The soil is suited to the production of grain, but less so for the
cultivation of fruits. Flocks and herds abound, but the cattle are
somewhat small. Their herds are their most valued possessions. Silver
and gold the gods have denied them, whether in mercy or in wrath I
cannot determine. Nor is iron plentiful with them, as may be judged
from their weapons. Swords or long spears they rarely use, for they
fight chiefly with javelins and shields. Their strength lies mainly in
their foot, and such is the swiftness of the infantry that it can suit
and match the motions and engagements of the cavalry.

Generals are chosen for their courage, kings are elected through
distinction of race. The power of the rulers is not unlimited or
arbitrary, and the generals secure obedience mainly by force of the
example of their own enterprise and bravery.

Therefore, when going on a campaign, they carry with them sacred images
taken from the sacred groves. It is their custom also to flock to the
field of war not merely in battalions, but with whole families and
tribes of relations. Thus, close to the scene of conflict are lodged
the most cherished pledges of nature, and the cries of wives and
infants are heard mingling with the echoes of battle. Their wounds
and injuries they carry to their mothers and wives, and the women
administer food and encouragement to their husbands and sons even while
these are engaged in fighting.


_II.--Customs of Government and War_

Mercury is the god most generally worshipped. To him at certain times
it is lawful to offer even human sacrifices. Hercules, Mars, and Isis
are also recognised as deities. From the majesty of celestial beings,
the Germans judge it to be unsuitable to hold their shrines within
walls, or to represent them under any human likeness. They therefore
consecrate whole woods and groves, and on these sylvan retreats they
bestow the names of the deities, thus beholding the divinities only in
contemplation and mental reverence.

Although the chiefs regulate affairs of minor import, the whole nation
deliberates concerning matters of higher consequence, the chiefs
afterwards discussing the public decision. The assemblies gather
leisurely, for sometimes many do not arrive for two or three days. The
priests enjoin silence, and on them is devolved the prerogative of
correction. The chiefs are heard according to precedence, or age, or
nobility, or warlike celebrity, or eloquence. Ability to persuade has
more influence than authority to command. Inarticulate murmurs express
displeasure at a proposition, pleasure is indicated by the brandishing
of javelins and the clashing of arms.

Punishments vary with the character of crime. Traitors and deserters
are hanged on trees; cowards, sluggards, and vicious women are
smothered in bogs. Fines, to be paid in horses or cattle, are exacted
for lighter offences, part of the mulct being awarded to the party
wronged, part to the chief.

The Germans transact no business without carrying arms, but no man
thus bears weapons till the community has tested his capacity to
wield them. When the public approval has been signified, the youth is
invested in the midst of the assembly by his father or other relative
with a shield and javelin.

Their chief distinction is to be constantly surrounded by a great
band of select young men, for their honour in peace and their help in
warfare.

In battle it is disgraceful to a chief to be surpassed in feats of
bravery, and it is an indelible reproach to his followers to return
alive from a conflict in which their prince has been slain. The chief
fights for victory, his followers fight for him. The Germans are so
restless that they cannot endure repose, and thus many of the young
men of rank, if their own tribe is tranquil, quit it for a community
which happens to be engaged in war. In place of pay the retainers are
supplied with daily repasts, grossly prepared, but always profuse.


_III.--Domestic Customs of the Germans_

Intervals of peace are not much devoted to the chase by the Germans,
but rather to indolence, to sleep, and to feasting. Many surrender
themselves entirely to sloth and gluttony, the cares of house, lands,
and possessions being left to the wives. It is an astonishing paradox
that in the same men should co-exist so much delight in idleness and so
great a repugnance to tranquil life.

The Germans do not dwell in cities, and endure no contiguity in their
abodes, inhabiting spots distinct and apart, just as they fancy,
a fountain, a grove, or a field. Their villages consist of houses
arranged in opposite rows, not joined together as are ours. Each is
detached, with space around, and mortar and tiles are unknown. Many, in
winter, retreat to holes dug in the ground, to which they convey their
grain.

The laws of matrimony are strictly observed, and polygamy is rarely
practised among the Germans. The dowry is not brought by the wife,
but by the husband. Conjugal infidelity is exceedingly rare, and is
instantly punished. In all families the children are reared without
clothing, and thus grow into those physical proportions which are so
wonderful to look upon. They are invariably suckled by their mothers,
never being entrusted to nursemaids. The young people do not hasten to
marry, and thus the robust vigour of the parents is inherited by their
offspring.

No nation was ever more noted for hospitality. It is esteemed inhuman
to refuse to admit to the home any stranger whatever. Every comer is
willingly received and generously feasted. Hosts and guests delight in
exchanging gifts. To continue drinking night and day is no reproach
to any man. Quarrels through inebriety are very frequent, and these
often result in injuries and in fatalities. But likewise, in these
convivial feasts they usually deliberate about effecting reconciliation
between those who are at enmity, and also about forming affinities, the
election of chiefs, and peace and war.

Slaves gained in gambling with dice are exchanged in commerce to
remove the shame of such victories. Of their other slaves each has a
dwelling of his own, his lord treating him like a tenant, exacting
from him an amount of grain, or cattle, or cloth. Thus their slaves
are not subservient as are ours. For they do not perform services in
the households of their masters, these duties falling to the wives and
children of the family. Slaves are rarely seen in chains or punished
with stripes, though in the heat of passion they may sometimes be
killed.

Usury and borrowing at interest are unknown. The families every year
shift on the spacious plains, cultivating fresh allotments of the
soil. Only corn is grown, for there is no inclination to expend toil
proportionate to the capacity of the lands by planting orchards, or
enclosing meadows, or watering gardens.

Their funerals are not ostentatious, neither apparel nor perfumes being
accumulated on the pile, though the arms of the deceased are thrown
into the fire. Little demonstration is made in weeping or wailing, but
the grief endures long. So much concerning the customs of the whole
German nation.


_IV.--Tribes of the West and North_

I shall now describe the institutions of the several tribes, as they
differ from one another, giving also an account of those who from
thence removed, migrating to Gaul. That the Gauls were more powerful
in former times is shown by that prince of authors, the deified Julius
Cæsar. Hence it is probable that they have passed into Germany.

The region between the Hercynian forest and the rivers Maine and Rhine
was occupied by the Helvetians, as was that beyond it by the Boians,
both Gallic tribes. The Treveri and Nervii fervently aspire to the
reputation of descent from the Germans, and the Vangiones, Triboci, and
Nemetes, all dwelling by the Rhine, are certainly all Germans. The Ubii
are ashamed of their origin and delight to be called Agrippinenses,
after the name of the founder of the Roman colony which they were
judged worthy of being constituted.

The Batavi are the bravest of all these nations. They inhabit a little
territory by the Rhine, but possess an island on it. Becoming willingly
part of the Roman empire, they are free from all impositions and pay no
tribute, but are reserved wholly for wars, precisely like a magazine of
weapons and armour. In the same position are the Mattiaci, living on
the opposite banks and enjoying a settlement and limits of their own,
while they are in spirit and inclination attached to us.

Beginning at the Hercynian forest are the Catti, a robust and vigorous
people, possessed also of much sense and ability. They are not only
singularly brave, but are more skilled in the true art of war than
other Germans.

Near the Catti were formerly dwelling the Bructeri, in whose stead are
now settled the Chamani and the Angrivarii, by whom the Bructeri were
expelled and almost exterminated, to the benefit of us Romans. May the
gods perpetuate among these nations their mutual hatred, since fortune
befriends our empire by sowing strife amongst our foes!

The country of the Frisii, facing that of the Angrivarii and the
Chamani, is divided into two sections, called the greater and the
lesser, which both extend along the Rhine to the ocean.

Hitherto I have been describing Germany towards the west. Northward it
stretches with an immense compass. The great tribe of the Chauci occupy
the whole region between the districts of the Frisii and of the Catti.
These Chauci are the noblest people of all the Germans. They prefer to
maintain their greatness by justice rather than by violence, seeking to
live in tranquillity, and to avoid quarrels with others.

By the side of the Chauci and the Catti dwell the Cherusci, a people
who have degenerated in both influence and character. Finding no
enemy to stimulate them, they were enfeebled by too lasting a peace,
and whereas they were formerly styled good and upright, they are now
called cowards and fools, having been subdued by the Catti. In the same
winding tract live the Cimbri, close to the sea, a tribe now small in
numbers but great in fame for many monuments of their old renown. It
was in the 610th year of Rome, Cæcilius Metellus and Papirius Carbo
being consuls, that the first mention was made of the arms of the
Cimbri. From that date to the second consulship of the Emperor Trajan
comprehends an interval of nearly 210 years; so long a period has our
conquest of Germany occupied. In so great an interval many have been
the disasters on both sides.

Indeed, not from the Samnites, or from the Carthaginians, or from the
people of Spain, or from all the tribes of Gaul, or even from the
Parthians, have we received more checks or encountered more alarms. For
the passion of the Germans for liberty is more indomitable than that of
the Arsacidæ. What has the power of the East to lay to our dishonour?
But the overthrow and abasement of Crassus, and the loss by the Romans
of five great armies, all commanded by consuls, have to be laid to the
account of the Germans. By the Germans, also, even the Emperor Augustus
was deprived of Varus and three legions.

Only with great difficulty and the loss of many men were the Germans
defeated by Caius Marius in Italy, or by the deified Julius Cæsar
in Gaul, or by Drusus, or Tiberius, or Germanicus in their native
territories. And next, the strenuous menaces of Caligula against these
foes ended in mockery and ridicule. Afterwards, for a season they were
quiet, till, tempted to take advantage of our domestic schisms and
civil wars, they stormed and seized the winter entrenchments of our
legions, and attempted the conquest of Gaul. Though they were once more
repulsed, our success was rather a triumph than an overwhelming victory.


_V.--The Great Nation of the Suevi_

Next I must refer to the Suevi, who are not, like the Catti, a
homogeneous people, but are divided into several tribes, all bearing
distinct names, although they likewise are called by the generic title
of Suevi. They occupy the larger part of Germany. From other Germans
they are distinguished by their peculiar fashion of twisting their
hair into a knot, this also marking the difference between the freemen
and their slaves. Of all the tribes of the Suevi, the Semnones esteem
themselves to be the most ancient and the noblest, their faith in
their antiquity being confirmed by the mysteries of their religion.
Annually in a sacred grove the deputies of each family clan assemble to
repeat the rites practised by their ancestors. The horrible ceremonies
commence with the sacrifice of a man. Their tradition is that at this
spot the nation originated, and that here the supreme deity resides.
The Semnones inhabit a hundred towns, and by their superior numbers and
authority dominate the rest of the Suevi.

On the contrary, the Langobardi are ennobled by the paucity of their
number, for, though surrounded by powerful tribes, they assert
their superiority by their valour and skill instead of displaying
obsequiousness. Next come the Reudigni, the Aviones, the Angli, the
Varini, the Eudoses, the Suardones and the Nuithones, all defended by
rivers or forests.

These are marked by no special characteristics, excepting the common
worship of the goddess Nerthum, or Mother Earth, of whom they believe
that she not only intervenes in human affairs, but also visits the
nations. In a certain island of the sea is a wood called Castum. Here
is kept a chariot sacred to the goddess, covered with a curtain, and
permitted to be touched only by her priest, who perceives her whenever
she enters the holy vehicle, and with deepest veneration attends the
motion of the chariot, which is always drawn by yoked cows. Till the
same priests re-conducts the goddess to her shrine, after she has grown
weary of intercourse with mortals, feasts and games are held with great
rejoicings, no arms are touched, and none go to war. Slaves wash the
chariot and curtains in a sacred lake, and, if you will believe it, the
goddess herself; and forthwith these unfortunate beings are doomed to
be swallowed up in the same lake.

This portion of the Suevian territory stretches to the centre of
Germany. Next adjoining is the district of the Hermunduri (I am now
following the course of the Danube as I previously did that of the
Rhine), a tribe faithful to the Romans. To them, accordingly, alone
of all the Germans, is commerce permitted. They travel everywhere at
their own discretion. When to others we show nothing more than our arms
and our encampments, to this people we open our houses, as to men who
are not longing to possess them. The Elbe rises in the territory of the
Hermunduri.


_VI.--The Tribes of the Frontier_

Near the Hermunduri reside the Narisci, and next the Marcomanni and
the Quadi, the former being the more famed for strength and bravery,
for it was by force that they acquired their location, expelling from
it the Boii. Now, here is, as it were, the frontier of Germany, as far
as it is washed by the Danube. Not less powerful are several tribes
whose territories enclose the lands of those just named--the Marsigni,
the Gothini, the Osi, and the Burii. The Marsigni in speech and dress
resemble the Suevi; but as the Gothini speak Gallic, and the Osi the
Pannonian language, and as they endure the imposition of tribute, it is
manifest that neither of these peoples are Germans.

Upon them, as aliens, tribute is imposed, partly by the Sarmatæ, partly
by the Quadi, and, to deepen their disgrace, the Gothini are forced
to labour in the iron mines. Little level country is possessed by all
these several tribes, for they are located among mountainous forest
regions, Suevia being parted by a continuous range of mountains, beyond
which live many nations. Of these, the most numerous and widely spread
are the Lygii. Among others, the most powerful are the Arii, the
Helveconæ, the Manimi, the Elysii, and the Naharvali.

The Arii are the most numerous, and also the fiercest of the tribes
just enumerated. They carry black shields, paint their bodies black,
and choose dark nights for engaging in battle. The ghastly aspect of
their army strikes terror into their foes, for in all battles the
eyes are vanquished first. Beyond the Lygii dwell the Gothones, ruled
by a king, and thus held in stricter subjection than the other German
tribes, yet not so that their liberties are extinguished. Immediately
adjacent are the Rugii and the Lemovii, dwelling by the coast. The
characteristic of both is the use of a round shield and a short sword.

Next are the Suiones, a seafaring community with very powerful fleets.
The ships differ in form from ours in possessing prows at each end,
so as to be always ready to row to shore without turning. They are
not propelled by sails, and have no benches of oars at the sides. The
rowers ply in all parts of the ship alike, and change their oars from
place to place according as the course is shifted hither and thither.
Great homage is paid among them to wealth; they are governed by a
single chief, who exacts implicit obedience. Arms are not used by these
people indiscriminately, as by other German tribes. Weapons are shut up
under the care of a slave. The reason is that the ocean always protects
the Suiones from their foes, and also that armed bands, when not
employed, grow easily demoralised.

Beyond the Suiones is another sea, dense and calm. It is thought that
by this the whole globe is bounded, for the reflection of the sun,
after his setting, continues till he rises, and that so radiantly as to
obscure the stars. Popular opinion even adds that the tumult is heard
of his emerging from the ocean, and that at sunrise forms divine are
seen, and also the rays about his head. Only thus far extend the limits
of Nature, if what fame reports be true.

The Æstii reside on the right of the Suevian Sea. Their dress and
customs resemble those of the Suevi, but the language is akin to that
of Britain. They worship the Mother of gods, and wear images of boars,
without any weapons, superstitiously trusting the goddess and the
images to safeguard them. But they cultivate the soil with much greater
zeal than is usual with Germans, and they even search the ocean, and
are the only people who gather amber, which they find in the shallows
and along the shore. It lay long neglected till it gained value from
our luxury.

Bordering on the Suiones are the Sitones, agreeing with them in all
things excepting that they are governed by a woman. So emphatically
have they degenerated, not merely from liberty, but even below a
condition of bondage. Here end the territories of the Suevi. Whether
I ought to include the Peucini, the Venedi, and the Fenni among the
Sarmatæ or the Germani I cannot determine, although the Peucini speak
the same language with the Germani, dress, build, and live like them,
and resemble them in dirt and sloth.

What further accounts we have are fabulous, and these I leave
untouched.




HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE TAINE

History of English Literature

  Two years before the appearance of his "Histoire de la
  Littérature Anglaise" Taine had aroused a lively interest in
  England by his "Notes sur l'Angleterre," a work showing much
  wayward sympathy for the English character, and an irregular
  understanding of English institutions. The same mixed impression
  was produced by the laboriously conceived and brilliantly
  written "History of English Literature." Taine (see Vol. XXIV,
  p. 177) wrote to a theory that often worked out into curious
  contradictions. His method was to show how men have been shaped
  by the environments and tendencies of their age. Unfortunately,
  having formed an idea of the kind of literature our age should
  produce according to his theory, he had eyes for nothing
  except what he expected to find. He went to literature for his
  confirmations of his reading of history. Taine's criticism,
  in consequence, is often incomplete, and more piquant than
  trustworthy. The failure to appreciate some of the great English
  writers--notably Shakespeare and Milton--is patent. Still, the
  critic always had the will to be just, and no foreigner has
  devoted such complimentary labour to the formation of a complete
  estimate of English literature. The book was published in 1863-4.


_Saxon and Norman_

History has been revolutionised by the study of literatures. A work
of literature is now perceived, not to be a solitary caprice, but a
transcript of contemporary manners, from which we may read the style
of man's feelings for centuries back. By the study of a literature,
one may construct a moral history, the psychology of a people. To find
a complete literature is rare. Only ancient Greece, and modern France
and England offer a complete series of great literary monuments. I
have chosen England because it is alive, and one can see it with more
detachment than one can see France.

Huge white bodies, cool-blooded, with fierce blue eyes, reddish flaxen
hair; ravenous stomachs filled with meat and cheese and heated by
strong drinks; a cold temperament, slow to love, home-staying, prone
to drunkenness--these are to this day the features which descent
and climate preserve to the English race. The heavy human brute
gluts himself with sensations and noise, and this appetite finds a
grazing-ground in blows and battle. Strife for strife's sake such is
their pleasure. A race so constituted was predisposed to Christianity
by its gloom, and beyond Christianity foreign culture could not graft
any fruitful branch on this barbarous stock. The Norman conquerors of
France had by intermarriage become a Latin race, and nimbly educated
themselves from the Gauls, who boasted of "talking with ease." When
they crossed to England, they introduced new manners and a new spirit.
They taught the Saxon how ideas fall in order, and which ideas are
agreeable; they taught him how to be clear, amusing, and pungent. At
length, after long impotence of Norman literature, which was content to
copy, and of Saxon literature, which bore no fruit, a definite language
was attained, and there was room for a great writer.


_Chaucer_

Then Geoffrey Chaucer appeared, inventive though a disciple, original
though a translator, and by his genius, education, and life was
enabled to know and depict a whole world, but above all to satisfy the
chivalric world and the splendid courts which shone upon the heights.
He belonged to it, and took such part in it that his life from end to
end was that of a man of the world and a man of action.

Two motives raised the middle age above the chaos of barbarism, one
religious, which fashioned the gigantic cathedrals, the other secular,
which built the feudal fortresses. The one produced the adventurous
hero, the other the mystical monk. These master-passions gave way at
last to monotony of habit and taste for worldliness. Something was then
needed to make the evening hours flow sweetly. The lords at table have
finished dinner; the poet arrives; they ask him for his subject, and he
answers "Love."

There is something more pleasant than a fine narrative, and that is a
collection of fine narratives, especially when the narratives are all
of different colouring. This collection Chaucer gave us, and more. If
over-excited, he is always graceful, polished, full of light banter,
half-mockeries, somewhat gossipy. An elegant speaker, facile, every
ready to smile, he makes of love not a passion but a gay feast. But if
he was romantic and gay after the fashion of his age, he also had a
fashion of his own. He observes characters, notes their differences,
studies the coherence of their parts, brings forward living and
distinct persons--a thing unheard of in his time. It is the English
positive good sense and aptitude for seeing the inside of things
beginning to appear. Chaucer ceases to gossip, and thinks. Each tale is
suited to the teller. Instead of surrendering himself to the facility
of glowing improvisation, he plans. All his tales are bound together by
veritable incidents which spring from the characters of the personages,
and are such as we light upon in our travels. He advanced beyond the
threshold of his art, but he paused in the vestibule. He half-opens
the door of the temple, but does not take his seat there; at most he
sat down at intervals. His voice is like that of a boy breaking into
manhood. He sets out as if to quit the middle ages; but in the end he
is still there.


_The Renaissance_

For seventeen centuries a deep and sad thought had weighed upon
the spirit of man--the idea of his impotence and decadence. Greek
corruption, Roman oppression, and the dissolution of the old world had
given it birth; it, in its turn, had produced a stoical resignation,
an epicurean indifference, Alexandrian mysticism, and the Christian
hope in the Kingdom of God. At last invention makes another start. All
was renewed, America and the Indies were added to the map. The system
of the universe was propounded, the experimental sciences were set
on foot, art and literature shot forth like a harvest, and religion
was transformed. It seems as though men had suddenly opened their
eyes and seen. They attained a new and superior kind of intelligence
which produced extraordinary warmth of soul, a super-abundant and
splendid imagination, reveries, visions, artists, believers, founders,
creators. This was Europe's grand age, and the most notable epoch
of human growth. To this day we live from its sap. To vent the
feelings, to set free boldly on all the roads of existence the pack
of appetites and instincts, this was the craving which the manners of
the time betrayed. It was "merry England," as they called it then.
It was not yet stern and constrained. It extended widely, freely,
and rejoiced to find itself so expanded. A few sectarians, chiefly
in the towns, clung gloomily to the Bible; but the Court, and the
men of the world sought their teachers and their heroes from Pagan
Greece and Rome. Nearer still was another Paganism, that of Italy,
and civilisation was drawn thence as from a spring. Transplanted into
different races and climates, this paganism received from each a
distinct character--in England it becomes English. Here Surrey--the
English Petrarch--introduced a new style, a manly style, which marks
a great transformation of the mind. He looks forward to the last line
while writing the first, and keeps the strongest word for the last.
He collects his phrases in harmonious periods, and by his inversions
adds force to his ideas. Every epithet contains an idea, every metaphor
a sentiment. Those who have ideas now possess in the new-born art an
instrument capable of expressing them. In half a century English
writers had introduced every artifice of language, period, and style.

Luxuriance and irregularity were the two features of the new
literature. Sir Philip Sydney may be selected as exhibiting the
greatness and the folly of the prevailing taste. How can his pastoral
epic, "The Arcadia," be described? It is but a recreation, a poetical
romance written in the country for the amusement of a sister, a work
of fashion, a relic, but it shows the best of the general spirit,
the jargon of the world of culture, fantastic imagination, excessive
sentiment, a medley of events which suited men scarcely recovered from
barbarism. At his period men's heads were full of tragical images,
and Sydney's "Arcadia" contains enough of them to supply half a dozen
epics. And Sydney was only a soldier in an army; there is a multitude
about him, a multitude of poets. How happens it that when this
generation was exhausted true poetry ended in England as true painting
in Italy and Flanders? It was because an epoch of the mind came and
passed away. These men had new ideas and no theories in their heads.
Their emotions were not the same as ours. For them all things had a
soul, and though they had no more beauty then than now, men found them
more beautiful.


_Spenser_

Among all the poems of this time there is one truly divine--Spenser's
"Faërie Queene." Everything in his life was calculated to lead Spenser
to ideal poetry; but the heart within is the true poet. Before all,
his was a soul captivated by sublime and chaste beauty. Philosophy and
landscapes, ceremonies and ornaments, splendours of the country and
the court, on all which he painted or thought he impressed his inward
nobleness. Spenser remains calm in the fervour of invention. He is
epic, that is, a narrator. No modern is more like Homer. Like Homer,
he is always simple and clear; he makes no leap, he omits no argument,
he preserves the natural sequence of ideas while presenting noble
classical images. Like Homer, again, he is redundant, ingenuous: even
childish. He says everything, and repeats without limit his ornamental
epithets.

To expand in epic faculties in the region where his soul is naturally
borne, he requires an ideal stage, situated beyond the bounds of
reality, in a world which could never be. His most genuine sentiments
are fairy-like. Magic is the mould of his mind. He carries everything
that he looks upon into an enchanted land. Only the world of chivalry
could have furnished materials for so elevated a fancy. It is the
beauty in the poet's heart which his whole works try to express, a
noble yet laughing beauty, English in sentiment, Italian in externals,
chivalric in subject, representing a unique epoch, the appearance of
Paganism in a Christian race, and the worship of form by an imagination
of the North.

Among the prose writers of the Pagan renaissance, two may be singled
out as characteristic, namely, Robert Burton--an ecclesiastic and
university recluse who dabbled in all the sciences, was gifted with
enthusiasm and spasmodically gay, but as a rule sad and morose, and
according to circumstances a poet, an eccentric, a humorist, a madman,
or a Puritan--and Francis Bacon, the most comprehensive, sensible,
originative mind of the age; a great and luminous intellect. After more
than two centuries it is still to Bacon that we go to discover the
theory of what we are attempting and doing.


_The Theatre_

The theatre was a special product of the English Renaissance. If ever
there was a living and natural work, it is here. There were already
seven theatres in Shakespeare's time, so great and universal was the
taste for representations. The inborn instincts of the people had not
been tamed, nor muzzled, nor diminished. We hear from the stage as from
the history of the times, the fierce murmur of all the passions. Not
one of them was lacking. The poets who established the drama, carried
in themselves the sentiments which the drama represents. Greene,
Marlowe, and the rest, were ill-regulated, passionate, outrageously
vehement and audacious. The drama is found in Marlowe as the plant in
the seed, and Marlowe was a primitive man, the slave of his passions,
the sport of his dreams. Shakespeare, Beaumont, Fletcher, Jonson,
Webster, Massinger, Ford, appear close upon each other, a new and
favoured generation, flourishing in the soil fertilised by the efforts
of the generation which preceded them. The characters they produced
were such as either excite terror by their violence, or pity by their
grace. Passion ravages all around when their tragic figures are on the
stage; and contrasted with them is a troop of sweet and timid figures,
tender before everything, and the most loveworthy it has been given to
man to depict. The men are warlike, imperious, unpolished; the women
have sweetness, devotion, patience, inextinguishable affection--a thing
unknown in distant lands, and in France especially. With these women
love becomes almost a holy thing. They aim not at pleasure but at
devotion. When a new civilisation brings a new art to light there are
about a dozen men of talent who express the general idea surrounding
one or two men of genius who express it thoroughly. The first
constitute the chorus, the others the leaders. The leaders in this
movement are Shakespeare and Ben Jonson.

Ben Jonson was a genuine Englishman, big and coarsely framed,
combative, proud, often morose, prone to strain splenitic imaginations.
His knowledge was vast. In an age of great scholars he is one of
the best classics of his time. Other poets for the most part are
visionaries; Jonson is all but a logician. Whatever he undertakes,
whatever be his faults, haughtiness, rough-handling, predilection
for morality and the past, he is never little or commonplace. Nearly
all his work consists of comedies, not sentimental and fanciful as
Shakespeare's, but satirical, written to represent and correct follies
and vices. Even when he grew old his imagination remained abundant and
fresh. He is the brother of Shakespeare.


_Shakespeare_

Only this great age could have cradled such a child as Shakespeare.
What soul! What extent of action, and what sovereignty of an unique
faculty! What diverse creations, and what persistence of the same
impress! Look now. Do you not see the poet behind the crowd of his
creations? They have all shown somewhat of him. Ready, impetuous,
impassioned, delicate, his genius is pure imagination, touched
more vividly and by slighter things than ours. Hence, his style,
blooming with exuberant images, loaded with exaggerated metaphors. An
extraordinary species of mind, all-powerful, excessive, equally master
of the sublime and the base, the most creative that ever engaged in the
exact copy of the details of actual existence, in the dazzling caprice
of fancy, in the profound complications of superhuman passions; a
nature inspired, superior to reason, extreme in joy and pain, abrupt of
gait, stormy and impetuous in its transports!

Shakespeare images with copiousness and excess; he spreads metaphors
profusely over all he writes; it is a series of painting which is
unfolded in his mind, picture on picture, image on image, he is forever
copying the strange and splendid visions which are heaped up within
him. Such an imagination must needs be vehement. Every metaphor is a
convulsion. Shakespeare's style is a compound of curious impressions.
He never sees things tranquilly. Like a fiery and powerful horse, he
bounds but cannot run. He flies, we creep. He is obscure and original
beyond all the poets of his or any other age--the most immoderate of
all violaters of language, the most marvellous of all creators of
souls. The critic is lost in Shakespeare as in an immense town. He can
only describe a few monuments and entreat the reader to imagine the
city.


_The Christian Renaissance_

Following the pagan came the Christian Renaissance born of the
Reformation, a new birth in harmony with the genius of the Germanic
peoples. It must be admitted that the Reformation entered England by a
side door. It was established when Henry VIII. permitted the English
Bible to be published. England had her book. Hence have sprung much
of the English language and half of the English manners; to this day
the country is Biblical. After the Bible the book most widely-read
in England is the Pilgrim's Progress by John Bunyan. It is a manual
of devotion for the use of simple folk. In it we hear a man of the
people speaking to the people, who would render intelligible to all
the terrible doctrine of damnation and salvation. Allegory is natural
to Bunyan. He employs it from necessity. He only grasps truth when
it is made simple by images. His work is allegorical, that it may
be intelligible. Bunyan is a poet because he is a child. He has the
freedom, the tone, the ease, the clearness of Homer; he is as close
to Homer as an Anabaptist tinker could be to a heroic singer. He and
Milton survived as the two last poets of the Reformation, oppressed
and insulted, but their work continues without noise, for the ideal
they raised was, after all, that which the time suggested and the race
demanded.


_Milton_

John Milton was not one of those fevered souls whose rapture takes them
by fits, and whose inquietude condemns them to paint the contradictions
of passion. His mind was lucid, his imagination limited. He does not
create souls but constructs arguments. Emotions and arguments are
arranged beneath a unique sentiment, that of the sublime, and the broad
river of lyric poetry streams from him with even flow, splendid as a
cloth of gold.

Against external fluctuations he found a refuge in himself; and the
ideal city which he had built in his soul endured impregnable to all
assaults. He believed in the sublime with the whole force of his
nature, and the whole authority of his logic. When after a generous
education he returned from his travels he threw himself into the strife
of the times heartily, armed with logic, indignation and learning,
and protected by conviction and conscience. I have before me the
formidable volume in which his prose works were collected. What a book!
The chairs creak when you place it upon them. How we cannot fix our
attention on the same point for a page at a time. We require manageable
ideas; we have disused the big two-handed sword of our forefathers.
If Michael Angelo's prophets could speak, it would be in Milton's
style. Overloaded with ornaments, infinitely prolonged, these periods
are triumphant choruses of angelic Alleluias sung by deep voices to
the accompaniment of ten thousand harps of gold. But is he truly a
prose-writer? Entangled dialectics, a heavy and awkward mind, fanatical
and ferocious provincialism, the blast and temerities of implacable
passion, the sublimity of religious and lyric exaltation--we do not
recognize in these features a man born to explain, persuade, and prove.

As a poet Milton wrote not by impulse but like a man of letters with
the assistance of books, seeing objects as much through previous
writings as in themselves, adding to his images the images of others,
borrowing and recasting their inventions. He made thus for himself
a composite and brilliant style, less natural than that of his
precursors, less fit for effusions, less akin to the lively first
glow of sensation, but more solid, more regular, more capable of
concentrating in one large patch of light all their sparklings and
splendours. He compacted and ennobled the poets' domain.

When, however, after seventeen years of fighting and misfortune had
steeped his soul in religious ideas, mythology yielded to theology,
the habit of discussion subdued the lyric light. The poet no longer
sings sublime verse, he harangues in grave verse, he gives us correct
solemn discourses. Adam and Eve the first pair! I listen and hear two
reasoners of the period--Colonel Hutchinson and his wife. Heavens!
dress them at once. Folks so cultivated should have invented before all
a pair of trousers and modesty. This Adam enters Paradise via England.
There he learnt respectability and moral speechifying. Adam was your
true _pater familias_ with a vote, an old Oxford man, consulted at
need by his wife, and dealing out to her with prudent measure the
scientific explanations which she requires. The flow of dissertations
never pauses. From Paradise it gets into Heaven. Milton's Jehovah is a
grave king who maintains a suitable state something like Charles I. The
finest thing in connection with Paradise is Hell; and in this history
of God, the chief part is taken by the devil. No poetic creation equals
in horror and grandeur the spectacle that greeted Satan on leaving his
dungeon.

But what a heaven! One would rather enter Charles I's troops of
lackeys, or Cromwell's Ironsides. What a gap between this monarchical
frippery and the visions of Dante! To the poet of the Apocalypse the
voice of the deity was "as the sound of many waters; and he had in
his right hand seven stars; and his countenance was as the sun shining
in his strength; and when I saw him I fell at his feet as dead." When
Milton arranged his celestial show, he did not fall at his feet as dead.

When we take in, in one view, the vast literary region of England,
extending from the restoration of the Stuarts to the French Revolution,
we perceive that all the productions bear a classical impress, such as
is met with neither in the preceding nor in the succeeding time. This
classical art finds its centre in the labours of Pope, and above all in
Pope, whose favourite author is Dryden, of all English poets the least
inspired and the most classical. Pope gave himself up to versification.
He did not write because he thought, but he thought in order to write.
I wish I could admire his works of imagination, but I cannot. I know
the machinery. There is, however, a poet in Pope, and to discover
him we have only to read him in fragments. Each verse in Pope is a
masterpiece if taken alone. There is a classical architecture of ideas,
and of all the masters who have practised it in England Pope is the
most skilled.


_The Modern Spirit_

The spirit of the modern revolution broke out first in a Scotch
peasant, Robert Burns. Scarcely ever was seen together more of misery
and talent. Burns cries out in favour of instinct and joy. Love was his
main business. In him for the first time a poet spoke as men speak, or,
rather, as they think, without premeditation, with a mixture of all
styles. Burns was much in advance of his age, and the life of men in
advance of their age is not wholesome. He died worn out at 37. In him
old narrow moralities give place to the wide sympathy of the modern man.

Now appeared the English romantic school. Among the multitude of its
writers we may distinguish Southey, a clever man, a producer of
decorative poems to suit the fashion; Coleridge, a poor fellow who had
steeped himself in mystical theories; Thomas More, a witty railer; and
Walter Scott, the favourite of his age, who was read over the whole
of Europe, was almost equal to Shakespeare, had more popularity than
Voltaire, earned about £200,000, and taught us all history. Scott gave
to Scotland a citizenship of literature. Scott loves men from the
bottom of his heart. By his fundamental honesty and wide humanity he
was the Homer of modern life.

When the philosophical spirit passed from Germany to England,
transformed itself and became Anglican, deformed itself and became
revolutionary, it produced a Wordsworth, a Byron, a Shelley.
Wordsworth, a new Cowper, with less talent and more ideas, was
essentially an interior man, engrossed by the concerns of the soul. To
such men life becomes a grave business on which we must incessantly and
scrupulously reflect. Wordsworth was a wise and happy man, a thinker
and dreamer, who read and walked and listened in deep calm to his own
thoughts. The peace was so great within him and around him that he
could perceive the imperceptible. He saw grandeur and beauty in the
trivial events which weave the woof of our most commonplace days.
His "Excursion" is like a Protestant temple--august though bare and
monstrous.

Shelley, one of the greatest poets of the age, beautiful as an angel,
of extraordinary precocity, sweet, generous, tender, overflowing
with gifts of heart, mind, birth, and fortune, marred his life by
introducing into his conduct the enthusiastic imagination he should
have kept for his verse. His world is beyond our own. We move in it
between heaven and earth, in abstraction, dreamland, symbolism. Shelley
loved desert and solitary places, where man enjoys the pleasure of
believing infinite what he sees--infinite as his soul. Verily there
is a soul in everything; in the universe is a soul; even beyond the
sensible form shines a secret essence and something divine which we
catch sight of by sublime illuminations, never reaching or penetrating
it. The poets hear the great heart of nature beat; they would reach it.
One alone, Byron, succeeds.

I have reserved for the last the greatest and most English artist, from
whom we may learn more truths of his country and of his age than from
all the rest. All styles appear dull, and all souls sluggish by the
side of Byron's. No such great poet has had so narrow an imagination.
They are his own sorrows, his own revolts, his own travels, which,
hardly transformed and modified, he introduces into his verses. He
never could make a poem save of his own heart. If Goethe was the poet
of the universe, Byron was the poet of the individual; and if the
German genius found its interpretation in the one, the English genius
found its interpretation in the other.




HENRY DAVID THOREAU

"Walden"

  Henry David Thoreau, America's poet-naturalist, as he might
  be called, was born at Concord, Mass., on July 12, 1817. His
  great-grandparents were natives of the Channel Islands, whence
  his grandfather emigrated. Thoreau was educated at Hartford, and
  began work as a teacher, but under the influence of Emerson, in
  whose house he lived at intervals, made writing his hobby and a
  study of the outdoor world his occupation. In 1845, as related
  in "Walden," he built himself a shanty near Walden Pond, on land
  belonging to Emerson. There he busied himself with writing his
  "Week on the Concord and Merrimac Rivers," and in recording his
  observations in the woods. After the Walden experiment he mingled
  the pursuit of literature and the doing of odd jobs for a living.
  His books, "The Maine Woods," "A Yankee in Canada," "Excursions
  in Field and Wood," were mostly published after his death. He
  died on May 6, 1862, from consumption. Emerson, Hawthorne, and
  Alcott were his warm friends in life, and helped the world
  to appreciate his genius. A poet in heart, Thoreau was only
  successful in giving his poetry a prose setting, but that setting
  is harmonised with the utmost delicacy. No one has produced more
  beautiful effects in English prose with simpler words.


_The Simple Life_

When I wrote the following pages, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile
from any neighbour, in a house I had built for myself, on the shore of
Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the
labour of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. At
present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.

Men labour under a mistake. By a seeming fate, commonly called
necessity, they are employed laying up treasures which moth and rust
will corrupt. It is a fool's life, as they will find when they get to
the end of it if not before.

But it is never too late to give up our prejudices. What old people say
you cannot do, you try and find that you can. I have lived some thirty
years and I have yet to hear the first syllable of valuable advice from
my seniors.

To many creatures, there is but one necessity of life--food. None of
the brute creation require more than food and shelter. The necessaries
of life for man in this climate may be distributed under the several
heads of food, shelter, clothing, and fuel. I find by my own experience
a few implements, a knife, an axe, a spade, a wheelbarrow, etc., and
for the studious, lamplight, stationery, and access to a few books,
rank next to necessaries, and can all be obtained at a trifling cost.
Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life,
are positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind. None can be an
impartial or wise observer of human life but from the vantage ground of
voluntary poverty.


_Ideals_

If I should attempt to tell how I have desired to spend my life in
years past it would probably astonish those who know nothing about it.

I long ago lost a hound, a bay horse, and a turtle dove, and am still
on their trail. Many are the travellers I have spoken, concerning them,
describing their tracks and what calls they answered to. I have met one
or two who had heard the hound, and the tramp of the horse, and even
seen the dove disappear behind a cloud, and they seemed as anxious to
recover them as if they had lost them themselves.

How many mornings, summer and winter, before any neighbour was stirring
about his business, have I been about mine! So many autumn, aye, and
winter days, spent outside the town trying to hear what was in the
wind, to hear and carry it. At other times waiting at evening on the
hill-tops for the sky to fall that I might catch something, though I
never caught much, and that, manna-wise, would dissolve again in the
sun.

For many years I was self-appointed inspector of snow storms and rain
storms, and did my duty faithfully; surveyor, if not of highways, then
of forest paths. I looked after the wild stock of the town. I have
watered the red huckleberry, the sand cherry and the nettle tree, the
red pine and the black ash, the white grape and the yellow violet,
which might have withered else in dry seasons.

My purpose in going to Walden Pond was not to live cheaply nor to live
dearly there, but to transact some private business with the fewest
obstacles.


_House Building_

When I consider my neighbours, the farmers of Concord, I find that for
the most part they have been toiling twenty, thirty, or forty years,
that they may become the real owners of their farms; and we may regard
one-third of that toil as the cost of their houses. And when the farmer
has got his house he may not be the richer but the poorer for it, and
it be the house that has got him. The very simplicity and nakedness
of men's life in the primitive ages imply that they left him still
a sojourner in nature. When he was refreshed with food and sleep he
contemplated his journey again. He dwelt as it were in the tent of this
world. We now no longer camp as for a night, but have settled down on
earth and forgotten Heaven.

Near the end of March, 1845, I borrowed an axe and went down to the
woods by Walden Pond, nearest to where I intended to build my house,
and began to cut down some tall, arrowy, white pines, still in their
youth, for timber. It was a pleasant hillside where I worked, covered
with pine woods, through which I looked out on the pond, and a small
open field in the woods where pines and hickories were springing up.
Before I had done I was more the friend than the foe of the pine tree,
having become better acquainted with it.

By the middle of April my house was framed and ready for raising.
At length, in the beginning of May, with the help of some of
my acquaintances, rather to improve so good an occasion for
neighbourliness than from any necessity, I set up the frame of my
house. I began to occupy it on the 4th of July, as soon as it was
boarded and roofed, for the boards were carefully feather-edged and
lapped, so that it was perfectly impervious to rain, but before
boarding I laid the foundation of a chimney. I built the chimney after
my hoeing in the fall, before a fire became necessary for warmth, doing
my cooking in the meantime out of doors on the ground, early in the
morning. When it stormed before my bread was baked I fixed a few boards
over the fire, and sat under them to watch my loaf, and passed some
pleasant hours in that way.

The exact cost of my house, not counting the work, all of which was
done by myself, was just over twenty-eight dollars. I thus found that
the student who wishes for a shelter can obtain one for a lifetime at
an expense not greater than the rent which he now pays annually.


_Farming_

Before I finished my house, wishing to earn ten or twelve dollars by
some honest and agreeable method, in order to meet my unusual expenses,
I planted about two acres and a half of light and sandy soil near it,
chiefly with beans, but also a small part with potatoes, corn, peas,
and turnips. I was obliged to hire a team and a man for the ploughing,
though I held the plough myself. My farm outgoes for the first season
were, for employment, seed, work, etc., 14 dollars 72-1/2 cents. I got
twelve bushels of beans and eighteen bushels of potatoes, besides some
peas and sweet corn. My whole income from the farm was 23 dollars 43
cents, a profit of 8 dollars 71-1/2 cents, besides produce consumed.

The next year I did better still, for I spaded up all the land that I
required, about a third of an acre, and I learned from the experience
of both years, not being in the least awed by many celebrated works on
husbandry, that if one would live simply and eat only the crop which he
raised, he would need to cultivate only a few rods of ground, and that
it would be cheaper to spade up that than to use oxen to plough it, and
he could do all his necessary farm work, as it were, with his left hand
at odd hours in the summer.

My food for nearly two years was rye and Indian meal without yeast,
potatoes, rice, a very little salt pork, molasses and salt, and my
drink water. I learned from my two years' experience that it would cost
incredibly little trouble to obtain one's necessary food even in this
latitude, and that a man may use as simple a diet as the animals and
yet retain health and strength.

Bread I at first made of pure Indian meal and salt, genuine hoe-cakes,
which I baked before my fire out of doors, but at last I found a
mixture of rye and Indian meal most convenient and agreeable. I made a
study of the ancient and indispensable art of bread-making, going back
to the primitive days. Leaven, which some deem to be the soul of bread,
I discovered was not indispensable.

Thus I found I could avoid all trade and barter, so far as my food was
concerned, and having a shelter already, it would only remain to get
clothing and fuel. My furniture, part of which I made myself, consisted
of a bed, a table, a desk, three chairs, a looking-glass, three inches
in diameter, a pair of tongs and andirons, a kettle, a skillet, and a
frying pan, a dipper, a wash bowl, two knives and forks, three plates,
one cup, one spoon, a jug for oil, a jug for molasses, and a japanned
lamp. When I have met an immigrant tottering under a bundle which
contained his all, I have pitied him, not because it was his all, but
because he had all that to carry.


_Earning a Living_

For more than five years I maintained myself solely by the labour of
my hands, and I found that by working for about six weeks in the year
I could meet all the expenses of living. The whole of my winters, as
well as most of my summers, I had free and clear for study. I have
thoroughly tried school-keeping, and found that my expenses were out of
proportion to my income, for I was obliged to dress and train, not to
say think and believe accordingly; and I lost my time into the bargain.
I have tried trade; but I have learned that trade curses everything
it handles; and though you trade in messages from Heaven, the whole
curse of trade attaches to the business. I found that the occupation of
day-labourer was the most independent of any, especially as it required
only thirty or forty days in the year to support me. The labourer's
day ends with the going down of the sun, and he is then free to devote
himself to his chosen pursuit, independent of his labour; but his
employer, who speculates from month to month, has no respite from one
end of the year to the other.

But all this is very selfish, I have heard some of my townsmen say.
I confess that I have hitherto indulged very little in philanthropic
enterprises. However, when I thought to indulge myself in this respect
by maintaining certain poor persons as comfortably as I maintain
myself, and even ventured so far as to make them the offer, they one
and all unhesitatingly preferred to remain poor.


_The Life with Nature_

When I took up my abode in the woods I found myself suddenly neighbour
to the birds, not by having imprisoned one, but having caged myself
near them. I was not only nearer to some of those which commonly
frequent the garden and orchard, but to those wilder and more thrilling
songsters of the forest which never, or rarely, serenade a villager.

Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal
simplicity, and I may say, innocence, with Nature herself. I have been
as sincere a worshipper of Aurora as the Greeks. Morning brings back
the heroic ages. Then, for an hour at least, some part of us awakes
which slumbers all the rest of the day and night.

Why should we live with such hurry and waste of life? As for work, we
haven't any of any consequence. We have the Saint Vitus' dance, and
cannot possibly keep our heads still. Hardly a man takes a half hour's
nap after dinner, but when he wakes he holds up his head and asks:
"What's the news?" as if the rest of mankind had stood his sentinels.
"Pray tell me anything new that has happened to a man anywhere on this
globe." And he reads over his coffee and rolls that a man has had his
eyes gouged out this morning on the Wachito River, never dreaming the
while that he lives in the dark, unfathomed mammoth cave of this world,
and has but the rudiment of an eye himself.

Let us spend our day as deliberately as Nature. Let us rise early and
fast, or break fast, gently and without perturbation. Let us not be
upset and overwhelmed in that terrible rapid and whirlpool called a
dinner situated in the meridian shadows.

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. I drink at it, but while I
drink I see the sandy bottom, and detect how shallow it is. Its thin
current glides away, but eternity remains. I would drink deeper, fish
in the sky, whose bottom is pebbly with stars.


_Reading_

My residence was more favourable, not only to thought but to serious
reading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the
morning circulating library I had more than ever come within the
influence of those books which circulate round the world. I kept
Homer's "Iliad" on my table through the summer, though I looked at his
pages only now and then. To read well--that is to read true books in
a true spirit--is a noble exercise and one that will task the reader
more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. Books must
be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. No wonder
that Alexander carried the "Iliad" with him on his expeditions in a
precious casket. A written word is the choicest of relics.


_In the Sun_

I did not read books the first summer; I hoed beans. Nay, I often did
better than this. There were times when I could not afford to sacrifice
the bloom of the present moment to any work, whether of the head or
hands. I love a broad margin to my life. Sometimes on a summer morning,
having taken my accustomed bath, I sat in my sunny doorway from sunrise
till noon, rapt in a reverie, amidst the pines and hickories and
sumachs in undisturbed solitude and stillness, while the birds sang
around or flitted noiseless through the house, until by the sun falling
in at my west window, or the noise of some traveller's waggon on the
distant highway, I was reminded of the lapse of time. I grew in those
seasons like corn in the night, and they were far better than any work
of the hands would have been. They were not time subtracted from my
life, but so much over and above my usual allowance. I realised what
the Orientals mean by contemplation and the forsaking of works. Instead
of singing like the birds I silently smiled at my incessant good
fortune. This was sheer idleness to my fellow townsmen, no doubt, but
if the birds and flowers had tried me by their standard I should not
have been found wanting.


_Night Sounds_

Regularly at half past seven, in one part of the summer, the
whip-poor-wills chanted their vespers for half an hour, sitting on
a stump by my door, or upon the ridge pole of the house. When other
birds were still the screech owls took up the strain, like mourning
women their ancient u-lu-lu. Wise midnight hags! I love to hear their
wailing, their doleful responses, trilled along the woodside. They give
me a new sense of the variety and capacity of that nature which is our
common dwelling. _Oh-o-o-o-o that I had never been bor-r-r-r-n_! sighs
one on this side of the pond, and circles, with the restlessness of
despair to some new perch on the gray oaks. Then: _That I had never
been bor-r-r-r-n_! echoes another on the further side with tremulous
sincerity, and _bor-r-r-r-n_! comes faintly from far in the Lincoln
woods. I require that there are owls. They represent the stark twilight
and unsatisfied thoughts which all have.

I am not sure that ever I heard the sound of cock crowing from my
clearing, and I thought that it might be worth the while to keep a
cockerel for his music merely, as a singing bird. The note of this once
wild Indian pheasant is certainly the most remarkable of any bird's,
and if they could be naturalised without being domesticated it would
soon become the most famous sound in our woods.

I kept neither dog, cat, cow, pig, nor hens, so that you would have
said there was a deficiency of domestic sounds, neither the churn nor
the spinning wheel, nor even the singing of the kettle, nor the hissing
of the urn, nor children crying, to comfort me; only squirrels on the
roof, a whip-poor-will on the ridge pole, a bluejay screaming beneath
the window, a woodchuck under the house, a laughing loon on the pond,
and a fox to bark in the night.

This is a delicious evening, when the whole body is one sense and
imbibes delight through every pore. I go and come with a strange
liberty in Nature, a part of herself. Sympathy with the fluttering
alder and poplar leaves almost takes away my breath; yet, like the
lake, my serenity is rippled, but not ruffled. Though it is now dark
the wind still blows and roars in the woods, the waves still dash, and
some creatures lull the rest with their notes. The repose is never
complete. The wildest animals do not repose but seek their prey now.
They are Nature's watchmen--links which connect the days of animated
life.

I find it wholesome to be alone the greater part of the time. I never
found the companion that was never so companionable as solitude. A man
thinking or working is always alone, let him be where he will. I am
no more lonely than the loon in the pond that laughs so loud. God is
alone, but the devil, he is far from being alone; he sees a great deal
of company; he is legion. I am no more lonely than a single dandelion
in a pasture, or a humble bee, or the North Star, or the first spider
in a new house.


_Visitors_

In my house I have three chairs: one for solitude, two for friendship,
three for society. My best room, however--my withdrawing room--always
ready for company, was the pine wood behind my house. Thither in Summer
days, when distinguished guests came, I took them, and a priceless
domestic swept the floor and kept the things in order.

I could not but notice some of the peculiarities of my visitors. Girls
and boys, and young women generally, seemed glad to be in the woods.
They looked in the pond and at the flowers, and improved their time.
Men of business, even farmers, thought only of solitude and employment,
and of the great distance at which I dwelt from something or other; and
though they said that they loved a ramble in the woods occasionally, it
was obvious that they did not. Restless, committed men, whose time was
all taken up in getting a living, or keeping it, ministers, who spoke
of God as if they enjoyed a monopoly of the subject, and who could not
bear all kinds of opinions, doctors, lawyers, and uneasy housekeepers,
who pried into my cupboard and bed when I was out, young men who had
ceased to be young, and had concluded that it was safest to follow the
beaten track of the professions--all these generally said that it was
not possible to do as much good in my position.


_Interference_

After hoeing, or perhaps reading and writing in the forenoon, I usually
bathed again in the pond, washed the dust of labour from my person,
and for the afternoon was absolutely free. Every day or two I strolled
to the village. As I walked in the woods to see the birds and the
squirrels, so I walked in the village to see the men and the boys.
Instead of the wind among the pines I heard the carts rattle.

One afternoon near the end of the first summer, when I went to the
village to get a shoe from the cobbler's, I was seized and put into
jail, because I did not pay a tax to, or recognise the authority
of, the State. I had gone down to the woods for other purposes. But
wherever a man goes men will pursue and paw him with their dirty
institutions, and, if they can, constrain him to belong to their
desperate Odd Fellows society. However, I was released the next day,
obtained my mended shoe, and returned to the woods in season to get my
dinner of huckleberries on Fair Haven Hill. I was never molested by
any person but those who represented the State. I had no lock nor bolt
but for the desk which held my papers, not even a nail to put over my
latch or window. I never fastened my door night or day, and though I
was absent several days my house was more respected than if it had been
surrounded by a file of soldiers.


_Exhausted Experience_

I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it
seemed to me that I had several more lives to live and could not spare
any more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly
we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.
I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door
to the pond side, and though it is five or six years since I trod it,
it is still quite distinct. So with the paths which the mind travels.
How worn and dusty then must be the highways of the world--how deep
the ruts of tradition and conformity. I learned this, at least by my
experiment, that if one advances confidently in the direction of his
dreams, and endeavours to live the life which he has imagined, he will
meet with a success unexpected in common hours. In proportion as he
simplifies his life the laws of the Universe will appear less complex,
and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness
weakness.




ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE

Democracy in America

  Alexis de Tocqueville (see Vol. XII, p. 117), being commissioned
  at the age of twenty-six to investigate and report on American
  prisons, made use of his residence in the United States to
  gain a thorough insight into the political institutions and
  social conditions of the great Republic. The results of his
  observations and reflections were given to the world in 1835,
  in the two famous volumes _De la Démocratie en Amérique_, which
  were followed in 1840 by a third and fourth volume under the
  same title. As an analysis of American political institutions De
  Tocqueville's work has been superseded by Mr. Bryce's admirable
  study of the same subject; but as one of the great classics of
  political philosophy it can never be superseded, and has rarely
  been rivalled. With all a Frenchman's simplicity and lucidity
  he traces the manifold results of the democratic spirit; though
  sometimes an excessive ingenuity, which is also French, leads
  him to over-speculative conclusions. The work was received with
  universal applause.


_I.--Equality_

The most striking impression which I received during my residence in
the United States was that of the equality which reigns there. This
equality gives a peculiar character to public opinion and to the
laws of that country, and influences the entire structure of society
in the most profound degree. Realising that equality, or democracy,
was rapidly advancing in the Old World also, I determined to make a
thorough study of democratic principles and of their consequences, as
they are revealed in the western continent.

We have only to review the history of European countries from the
days of feudalism, to understand that the development of equality is
one of the great designs of Providence; inasmuch as it is universal,
inevitable, and lasting, and that every event and every individual
contributes to its advancement.

It is impossible to believe that a social movement which has proceeded
so far as this movement towards equality has done, can be arrested
by human efforts, or that the democracy which has bearded kings and
barons can be successfully resisted by a wealthy bourgeoisie. We know
not whither we are moving; we only know that greater equality is found
to-day among Christian populations than has been known before in any
age or in any country.

I confess to a kind of religious terror in the presence of this
irresistible revolution, which has defied every obstacle for the
last ten centuries. A new political science is awaited by a world
which is wholly new; but the most immediate duties of the statesman
are to instruct the democracy, if possible to revive its beliefs, to
purify its morals, to enlighten its inexperience by some knowledge of
political principles, and to substitute for the blind instincts which
sway it, the consciousness of its true interests.

In the Old World, and in France especially, the more powerful,
intelligent, and moralised classes have held themselves apart from
democracy, and the latter has, therefore, been abandoned to its own
savage instincts. The democratic revolution has permeated the whole
substance of society, without those concomitant changes in laws, ideas,
habits, and manners which ought to have embodied and clothed it. So
it is that we indeed have democracy, but without those features which
should have mitigated its vices and liberated its advantages. The
prestige of royal power is gone, without being replaced by the majesty
of law, and our people despise authority as much as they fear it. Our
poor have the prejudices of their fathers without their beliefs, their
ignorance, without their virtues; they have taken self-interest for
a principle without knowing what their interests are. Our society is
tranquil, not in the consciousness of strength and of well-being,
but a sense of decrepitude and despair. That is why I have studied
America, in order that we may ourselves profit by her example. I have
no intention of writing a panegyric on the United States. I have seen
more in America than America herself; I have sought a revelation of
Democracy, with all its characters and tendencies, its prejudices and
its passions.


_II.--Religion and Liberty_

Our first consideration is of great importance, and must never be
lost sight of. The Anglo-American civilisation which we find in the
United States is the product of two perfectly distinct elements, which
elsewhere are often at war with one another, but have here been merged
and combined in the most wonderful way; I mean the spirit of religion
and the spirit of liberty. The founders of New England were at the same
time ardent secretaries and enthusiastic radicals; they were bound
by the narrowest religious beliefs, but were free from all political
prejudice.

Thus arose two tendencies which we may trace everywhere in American
manners, as well as in their lives. All political principles, laws,
and human institutions seem to have become plastic in the hands of the
early colonists. The bonds which fettered the society in which they had
been born fell from their limbs; ancient opinions which had dominated
the world for ages simply disappeared; a new career opened for the
human race; a world without horizons was before them, and they exulted
in liberty. But outside the limits of the political world, they made no
ventures of this kind. They abjured doubt, renounced their desire for
innovation, left untouched the veil of the sanctuary, and knelt with
awe before the truths of religion.

So, in their world of morals, everything was already classed,
arranged, foreseen, and determined; but in their world of politics,
everything was agitated, debated, and uncertain. In the former they
were ruled by a voluntary obedience, but in all political affairs they
were inspired by independence, contempt for experience, and jealous of
every authority.

Far from impeding one another, these two tendencies, which appear so
radically opposed, actually harmonise and seem even to support each
other. Religion sees in civil liberty a noble field for the exercise
of human faculties. Free and powerful in her own sphere, and satisfied
with the part reserved for her, she knows that her sovereignty is all
the more securely established when she depends only on her own strength
and is founded in the hearts of men. And liberty, on the other hand,
recognises in religion the comrade of its struggles and triumphs,
the cradle of its rights. It knows that religion is the safeguard of
morals, and that morals are the safeguard of the laws, and the judge of
the continuance of liberty itself.


_III.--Omnipotence of the Majority_

The greatest danger to liberty in America lies in the omnipotence of
the majority. A democratic power is never likely to perish for lack
of strength or of resources, but it may very well fall because of
the misdirection of its strength and the abuse of its resources. If
ever liberty is lost in America, it will be due to an oppression of
minorities which may drive them to an appeal to arms. The anarchy which
must then result will be due only to despotism.

This danger has not escaped the notice of American statesmen. Thus,
President James Madison said, "It is of great importance to republics,
not only that society should be defended from the oppression of
those who govern it, but also that one section of society should be
protected against the injustice of another section; for justice is the
end towards which all government must be directed." Again, Jefferson
said that "The tyranny of legislators is at present, and will be for
many years, our most formidable danger. The tyranny of the executive
will arise in its turn, but at a more distant period." Jefferson's
words are of great importance, for I consider him to have been the most
powerful apostle that democracy has ever had.

But there are certain factors in the United States which moderate
this tyranny of the majority. Chief among these is the absence of any
administrative centralisation; so that the majority, which has often
the tastes and instincts of a despot, lacks the instruments and the
means of tyranny. The local administrative bodies constitute so many
reefs and breakwaters to retard or divide the stream of the popular
will.

Not less important, as a counterpoise to the danger of democracy, is
the strong legal spirit which pervades the United States. Lawyers have
great influence and authority in matters of government. But lawyers
are strongly imbued with the tasks and habits of mind which are most
characteristic of aristocracy; they have an instinctive liking for
forms and for order, a native distaste for the will of the multitude,
and a secret contempt for popular government. Of course, their own
personal interest may and often does over-ride this professional
bias. But lawyers will always be, on the whole, friends of order and
of precedent, and enemies of change. And in America, where there are
neither nobles nor able political writers, and where the people are
suspicious of the wealthy, the lawyers do, in fact, form the most
powerful order in politics, and the most intellectual class of society.
They therefore stand to lose by any innovation, and their conservative
tendency is reinforced by their interests as a class.

A third safeguard against the tyranny of the majority is to be found
in the institution of a jury. Almost everyone is called at one time
or another to sit on a jury, and thus learns at least something of
the judicial spirit. The civil jury has saved English freedom in past
times, and may be expected to maintain American liberties also. It is
true that there are many cases, and those often the most important,
in which the American judge pronounces sentence without a jury. Under
those circumstances, his position is similar to that of a French judge,
but his moral power is far greater; for the memory and the influence of
juries are all about him, and he speaks with the authority of one who
habitually rests upon the jury system. In no other countries are the
judges so powerful as in those where the people are called in to share
judicial privileges and responsibilities.


_IV.--Equality of Men and Women_

Inasmuch as democracy destroys or modifies the various inequalities
which social traditions have made, it is natural to ask whether it has
had any effect on that great inequality between men and women which
is elsewhere so conspicuous. We are driven to the conclusion that the
social movement which places son and father, servant and master, and in
general, the inferior and superior, more nearly on the same level, must
raise woman more and more to an equality with man.

Let us guard, however, against misconceptions. There are people in
Europe who confuse the natural qualities of the two sexes, and desire
that men and women should be, not only equal, but also similar to one
another. That would give them both the same functions, the same duties
and the same rights, and would have them mingle in everything, in work,
in pleasures, and in business. But the attempt to secure this kind
of equality between the two sexes, only degrades them both, and must
result in unmanly men, and unwomanly women.

The Americans have not thus mistaken the kind of democratic equality
which ought to hold between man and woman. They know that progress does
not consist in forcing these dissimilar temperaments and faculties
into the same mould, but in securing that each shall fulfil his or her
task in the best possible way. They have most carefully separated the
functions of man and woman, in order that the great work of social life
may be most prosperously carried on.

In America, far more than elsewhere, the lines of action of the two
sexes have been clearly divided. You do not find American women
directing the external affairs of the family, or entering into business
or into politics; but neither do you find them obliged to undertake
the rough labours of the field, or any other work requiring physical
strength. There are no families so poor as to form an exception to this
rule.

So it is that American women often unite a masculine intelligence and
a virile energy with an appearance of great refinement and altogether
womanly manners.

One has often noticed in Europe a certain tinge of contempt even in
the flatteries which men lavish on women; and although the European
often makes himself a slave of a woman, it is easy to see that he never
really regards her as his equal. But in the United States men rarely
praise women, though they show their esteem for them every day.

Americans show, in fact, a full confidence in woman's reason, and a
profound respect for her liberty. They realise that her mind is just as
capable as that of man to discover truth, and that her heart is just as
courageous in following it; and they have never tried to shelter or to
guide her by means of prejudice, ignorance, or fear.

For my part I do not hesitate to say that the singular prosperity and
the evergrowing power of the American people is due to the superiority
of American women.


_V.--The Perfectibility of Man_

Equality suggests many ideas which would never have arisen without
it, and among others the notion that humanity can reach perfection--a
theory which has practical consequences of great interest.

In countries where the population is classed according to rank,
profession, and birth, and everyone has to follow the career to which
he happens to be born, each is conscious of limits to his power,
and does not attempt to struggle against an inevitable destiny.
Aristocratic peoples do not deny that man may be improved, but they
think of this as an amelioration of the individual, and not as a change
in social circumstances, and while they admit that humanity has made
great progress, they believe in certain limits which it cannot pass.
They do not think, for instance, that we shall arrive at sovereign good
or at absolute truth.

But in proportion as caste and class-distinction disappear, the
vision of an ideal perfection arises before the human mind. Continual
changes are ever taking place, some of them to his disadvantage, but
the majority to his advantage, and the democrat concludes that man
in general is capable of arriving at perfection. His reverses teach
him that no one has yet discovered absolute good, and his frequent
successes excite him to pursue it. Always seeking, falling, and rising
again, often deceived, but never discouraged, he hastens towards an
immense grandeur which he dimly conceives as the goal of humanity. This
theory of perfectibility exercises prodigious influence even on those
who have never thought of it. For instance, I ask an American sailor
why the ships of his country are built to last only a few years; and
he tells me without hesitation that the art of shipbuilding makes such
rapid progress every day, that the finest ship constructed to-day must
be useless after a very short time. From these words, spoken at random
by an uneducated man, I can perceive the general and systematic idea
which guides this great people in every matter.


_VI.--American Vanity_

All free people are proud of themselves, but national pride takes
different forms. The Americans, in their relations with strangers, are
impatient of the least criticism, and absolutely insatiable for praise.
The slightest congratulation pleases them, but the most extravagant
eulogium is not enough to satisfy them; they are all the time touting
for your praise, and if you are slow to give it they begin praising
themselves. It is as if they were doubtful of their own merit. Their
vanity is not only hungry, but anxious and envious. It gives nothing,
and asks insistently. It is both supplicant and pugnacious. If I tell
an American that his country is a fine one, he replies, "It is the
finest in the world." If I admire the liberty which it enjoys, he
answers, "There are few people worthy of such liberty." I remark on the
purity of manners in the United States, and he says, "Yes, a stranger
who knows the corruption of other nations must indeed be astonished at
us." At length I leave him to the contemplation of his country and of
himself, but he presently runs after me, and will not go away until
I have repeated it all over again. It is a kind of patriotism that
worries even those who honour it.

The Englishman, on the contrary, tranquilly enjoys the real or
imaginary advantages which his country affords. He cares nothing for
the blame nor for the praise of strangers. His attitude towards the
whole world is one of disdainful and ignorant reserve. His pride seeks
no nourishment; it lives on itself. It is very remarkable that the two
people who have arisen from the same stock should differ so radically
in their way of feeling and speaking.

In aristocratic countries, great families possess enormous privileges,
on which their pride rests. They consider these privileges as a natural
right inherent in their person, and their feeling of superiority
is therefore a peaceful one. They have no reason to boast of the
prerogatives which everyone concedes to them without question. So, when
public affairs are directed by an aristocracy, the national pride tends
to take this reserved, haughty, and independent form.

Under democratic conditions, on the contrary, the least advantage
which anyone gains has great importance in his eyes; for everyone is
surrounded by millions very nearly his equal. His pride therefore
becomes anxious and insatiable; he founds it on miserable trifles and
defends it obstinately. Again, most Americans have recently acquired
the advantages which they possess, and therefore have inordinate
pleasure in contemplating these advantages, and in showing them to
others; and as these advantages may escape at any moment, they are
always uneasy about them, and look at them again and again to see that
they still have them. Men who live in democracies love their country
as they love themselves, and model their national vanity upon their
private vanity. The close dependence of this anxious and insatiable
vanity of democratic peoples upon the equality and fragility of their
conditions is seen from the fact that the members of the proudest
nobility show exactly the same passionate jealousy for the most
trifling circumstances of their life when these become unstable or are
contested.




IZAAK WALTON

The Compleat Angler

  Izaak Walton, English author and angler, was born at Stafford
  on August 9, 1593, and until about his fiftieth year lived as a
  linen-draper in London. He then retired from business and lived
  at Stafford for a few years; but returned to London in 1650, and
  spent his closing years at Winchester, where he died on December
  15, 1683, and was buried in the cathedral there. Walton was
  thrice married, his second wife being sister of the future Bishop
  Ken. He had a large acquaintance with eminent clergymen, and
  among his literary friends were Ben Jonson and Michael Drayton.
  He was author of several charming biographies, including those
  of the poet Donne, 1640, of Sir Henry Wotton, 1651, of Richard
  Hooker, 1652, and of George Herbert, 1670. But by far his most
  famous work is "The Compleat Angler; or, the Contemplative Man's
  Recreation," published in 1653. There were earlier books on the
  subject in English, such as Dame Juliana Berner's "Treatise
  pertaining to Hawking, Hunting, and Fishing with an Angle," 1486;
  the "Book of Fishing with Hook and Line," 1590; a poem, "The
  Secrets of Angling," by John Denny, 1613; and several others.
  The new thing in Walton's book, and the secret of its unfading
  popularity, is the charm of temperament. Charles Lamb well said
  that it "breathes the very spirit of innocence, purity, and
  simplicity of heart." A sequel to the book, entitled the "Second
  Part of the Compleat Angler," was written by Charles Cotton, and
  published in 1676.


_The Virtues of Angling_

PISCATOR, VENATOR, AND AUCEPS

_Piscator._ You are well overtaken, gentlemen! A good morning to you
both! I have stretched my legs up Tottenham Hill to overtake you,
hoping your business may occasion you towards Ware, whither I am going
this fine fresh May morning.

_Venator._ Sir, I, for my part, shall almost answer your hopes, for my
purpose is to drink my morning's draught at the Thatched House. And,
sir, as we are all so happy to have a fine morning, I hope we shall
each be the happier in each other's company.

_Auceps._ Sir, I shall, by your favour, bear you company as far as
Theobald's, for then I turn up to a friend's house, who mews a hawk for
me. And as the Italians say, good company in a journey maketh the way
to seem the shorter, I, for my part, promise you that I shall be as
free and open-hearted as discretion will allow with strangers.

_Piscator._ I am right glad to hear your answers. I shall put on a
boldness to ask you, sir, whether business or pleasure caused you to be
up so early, for this other gentleman hath declared he is going to see
a hawk that a friend mews for him.

_Venator._ Sir, I intend to go hunting the otter.

_Piscator._ Those villainous vermin, for I hate them perfectly, because
they love fish so well, or rather destroy so much. For I, sir, am a
brother of the angle.

_Auceps._ And I profess myself a falconer, and have heard many
grave, serious men scoff at anglers and pity them, as it is a heavy,
contemptible, dull recreation.

_Piscator._ You know, gentlemen, it is an easy thing to scoff at any
art or recreation; a little wit mixed with all nature, confidence, and
malice will do it; but though they often venture boldly, yet they are
often caught, even in their own trap.

There be many men that are by others taken to be serious, and grave
men, which we contemn and pity: men that are taken to be grave because
nature hath made them of a sour complexion--money-getting men, men that
are condemned to be rich; for these poor, rich men, we anglers pity
them most perfectly. No, sir! We enjoy a contentedness above the reach
of such dispositions.

_Venator._ Sir, you have almost amazed me; for though I am no scoffer,
yet I have--I pray let me speak it without offence--always looked upon
anglers as more patient and simple men than, I fear, I shall find you
to be.

_Piscator._ Sir, I hope you will not judge my earnestness to be
impatience! As for my simplicity, if by that you mean a harmlessness
which was usually found in the primitive Christians, who were, as most
anglers are, followers of peace--then myself and men of my profession
will be glad to be so understood. But if, by simplicity, you mean to
express a general defect, I hope in time to disabuse you.

But, gentlemen, I am not so unmannerly as to engross all the discourse
to myself; I shall be most glad to hear what you can say in the
commendation of your several recreations.

_Auceps._ The element I use to trade in, the air, is an element of more
worth than weight; an element that doubtless exceeds both the earth and
water; in it my noble falcon ascends to such a height as the dull eye
of man is not able to reach to; my troop of hawks soars up on high, so
that they converse with the gods.

And more, the worth of this element of air is such that all creatures
whatsoever stand in need of it. The waters cannot preserve their fish
without air; witness the not breaking of ice and the result thereof.

_Venator._ Well, sir, I will now take my turn. The earth, that solid,
settled element, is the one on which I drive my pleasant, wholesome,
hungry trade. What pleasure doth man take in hunting the stately stag,
the cunning otter! The earth breeds and nourishes the mighty elephant,
and also the least of creatures! It puts limits to the proud and raging
seas, and so preserves both man and beast; daily we see those that are
shipwrecked and left to feed haddocks; but, Mr. Piscator, I will not be
so uncivil as not to allow you time for the commendation of angling; I
doubt we shall hear a watery discourse--and I hope not a long one.

_Piscator._ Gentlemen, my discourse is likely to prove suitable to my
recreation--calm and quiet.

Water is the eldest daughter of the creation, the element upon which
the spirit of God did first move. There be those that profess to
believe that all bodies are water, and may be reduced back into water
only.

The water is more productive than the earth. The increase of creatures
that are bred in the water is not only more miraculous, but more
advantageous to man for the preventing of sickness. It is observed that
the casting of Lent and other fish days hath doubtless been the cause
of these many putrid, shaking agues, to which this country of ours is
now more subject.

To pass by the miraculous cures of our known baths the Romans have made
fish the mistress of all their entertainments; and have had music to
usher in their sturgeons, lampreys, and mullets.

_Auceps._ Sir, it is with such sadness that I must part with you here,
for I see Theobald's house. And so I part full of good thoughts. God
keep you both.

_Venator._ Sir, you said angling was of great antiquity, and a perfect
art, not easily attained to. I am desirous to hear further concerning
those particulars.

_Piscator._ Is it not an art to deceive a trout with an artificial fly?
A trout! more sharp-sighted than any hawk! Doubt not, angling is an art
worth your learning. The question is rather, whether you be capable
of learning it? Angling is like poetry--men are to be born so. Some
say it is as ancient as Deucalion's flood, and Moses makes mention of
fish-hooks, which must imply anglers.

But as I would rather prove myself a gentleman by being learned, and
humble, valiant, and inoffensive, virtuous, and communicable, than by
any fond ostentation of riches, or, wanting those virtues, boast these
were in my ancestors, so if this antiquity of angling shall be an
honour to this art, I shall be glad I made mention of it.

I shall tell you that in ancient times a debate hath arisen, whether
the happiness of man doth consist more in contemplation or action?

Some have endeavoured to maintain their opinion of the first by saying
that the nearer we mortals approach to God by way of imitation,
the more happy we are. And they say God enjoys Himself only by a
contemplation of His own infiniteness, eternity, power, goodness and
the like.

On the contrary, there want not men of equal authority that prefer
action to be the more excellent, such as experiments in physics for the
ease and prolongation of man's life. Concerning which two opinions I
shall forbear to add a third, and tell you, my worthy friend, that both
these meet together and do most properly belong to the most honest,
quiet, and harmless art of angling.

An ingenious Spaniard says that "rivers and the inhabitants thereof
were made for wise men to contemplate, and fools to pass by without
consideration."

There be many wonders reported of rivers, as of a river in Epirus, that
puts out any lighted torch, and kindles any torch that was not lighted;
the river Selarus, that in a few hours turns a rod to stone, and
mention is made of the like in England, and many others on historical
faith.

But to tell you something of the monsters, or fish, call them what you
will, Pliny says the fish called the Balæna is so long and so broad as
to take up more length and breadth than two acres of ground; and in the
river Ganges there be eels thirty feet long.

I know we islanders are averse to the belief of these wonders, but
there are many strange creatures to be now seen. Did not the Prophet
David say, "They that occupy themselves in deep water see the wonderful
works of God"; and the apostles of our Saviour, were not they four
simple fishermen; He found that the hearts of such men, by nature,
were fitted for contemplation and quietness--men of sweet and peaceable
spirits, as indeed most anglers are.

_Venator._ Sir, you have angled me on with much pleasure to the
Thatched House, for I thought we had three miles of it. Let us drink a
civil cup to all lovers of angling, of which number I am now willing
to count myself, and if you will but meet me to-morrow at the time and
place appointed, we two will do nothing but talk of fish and fishing.

_Piscator._ 'Tis a match, sir; I will not fail you, God willing, to be
at Amwell Hill to-morrow before sun-rising.


_Master and Pupil_

_Piscator._ Sir, I am right glad to meet you. Come, honest Venator, let
us be gone; I long to be doing.

_Venator._ Well, let's to your sport of angling.

_Piscator._ With all my heart. But we are not yet come to a likely
place. Let us walk on. But let us first to an honest alehouse, where my
hostess can give us a cup of her best drink.

Seneca says that the ancients were so curious in the newness of their
fish, that they usually did keep them living in glass-bottles in their
dining-rooms, and did glory much in the entertaining of their friends,
to have the fish taken from under their tables alive that was instantly
to be fed upon. Our hostess shall dress us a trout, that we shall
presently catch, and we, with brother Peter and Goridon, will sup on
him here this same evening.

_Venator._ And now to our sport.

_Piscator._ This is not a likely place for a trout; the sun is too
high. But there lie upon the top of the water twenty Chub. Sir, here is
a trial of my skill! I'll catch only one, and he shall be the big one,
that has some bruise upon his tail.

_Venator._ I'll sit down and hope well; because you seem so confident.

_Piscator._ Look you, sir! The very one! Oh, 'tis a great logger-headed
Chub! I'll warrant he will make a good dish of meat.

Under that broad beech tree yonder, I sat down when I was last
a-fishing; and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a
friendly contention with the echo that lives in a hollow near the brow
of that primrose-hill. There I sat viewing the silver stream slide
away, and the lambs sporting harmlessly. And as I sat, these sights so
possessed my soul, that I thought as the poet hath it:

   "I was for that time lifted above earth;
    And possess'd joys not promised at my birth."

But, let us further on; and we will try for a Trout. 'Tis now past five
of the clock.

_Venator._ I have a bite! Oh me! He has broke all; and a good hook
lost! But I have no fortune! Sure yours is a better rod and tackling.

_Piscator._ Nay, then, take mine, and I will fish with yours. Look you,
scholar, I have another. I pray, put that net under him, but touch not
my line. Well done, scholar, I thank you.

And now, having three brace of Trouts, I will tell you a tale as we
walk back to our hostess.

A preacher that was to procure the approbation of a parish got from
a fellow preacher the copy of a sermon that was preached with great
commendation by him that composed it; and though the borrower preached
it, word for word, yet it was utterly disliked; and on complaining to
the lender of it, was thus answered: "I lent you indeed my fiddle, but
not my fiddlestick; for you are to know, everyone cannot make music
with my words, which are fitted for my own mouth." And though I lend
you my very rod and tacklings, yet you have not my fiddlestick, that
is, the skill wherewith I guide it.

_Venator._ Master, you spoke very true. Yonder comes mine hostess to
call us to supper; and when we have supped we will sing songs which
shall give some addition of mirth to the company.

_Piscator._ And so say I; for to-morrow we meet again up the water
towards Waltham.


_Fish of English Streams_

_Piscator._ Indeed, my good scholar, we may say of angling, as Dr.
Boteler said of strawberries, "Doubtless God could have made a better
berry, but doubtless God never did"; and so, God never did make a more
calm, quiet, innocent recreation than angling.

And when I see how pleasantly that meadow looks; and the earth smells
so sweetly too; I think of them as Charles the Emperor did of the City
of Florence; "that they were too pleasant to be looked on, but on
holidays."

To speak of fishes; the Salmon is accounted the king of fresh-water
fish. He breeds in the rivers in the month of August, and then hastes
to the sea before winter; where he recovers his strength and comes the
next summer to the same river; for like persons of riches, he has his
summer and winter house, to spend his life in, which is, as Sir Francis
Bacon hath observed, not above ten years.

The Pike, the tyrant of the fresh-waters, is said to be the
longest-lived of any fresh-water fish, but not usually above forty
years. Gesner relates of a man watering his mule in a pond, where the
Pike had devoured all the fish, had the Pike bite his mule's lips; to
which he hung so fast, the mule did draw him out of the water. And
this same Gesner observes, that a maid in Poland washing clothes in
a pond, had a Pike bite her by the foot. I have told you who relate
these things; and shall conclude by telling you, what a wise-man hath
observed: "It is a hard thing to persuade the belly, because it has no
ears."

Besides being an eater of great voracity, the Pike is observed to be a
solitary, melancholy and a bold fish. When he is dressed with a goodly,
rich sauce, and oysters, this dish of meat is too good for any man, but
an angler, or a very honest man.

The Carp, that hath only lately been naturalised in England, is said to
be the queen of rivers, and will grow to a very great bigness; I have
heard, much above a yard long.

The stately Bream, and the Tench, that physician of fishes, love best
to live in ponds. In every Tench's head are two little stones which
physicians make great use of. Rondeletius says, at his being in Rome,
he saw a great cure done by applying a Tench to the feet of a sick man.

But I will not meddle more with that; there are too many meddlers in
physic and divinity that think fit to meddle with hidden secrets and so
bring destruction to their followers.

The Perch is a bold, biting fish, and carries his teeth in his mouth;
and to affright the Pike and save himself he will set up his fins, like
as a turkey-cock will set up his tail. If there be twenty or forty in
a hole, they may be catched one after the other, at one standing; they
being, like the wicked of this world, not afraid, though their fellows
and companions perish in their sight.

And now I think best to rest myself, for I have almost spent my spirits
with talking.

_Venator._ Nay, good master, one fish more! For it rains yet; you know
our angles are like money put to usury; they may thrive, though we sit
still. Come, the other fish, good master!

_Piscator._ But shall I nothing from you, that seem to have both a good
memory and a cheerful spirit?

_Venator._ Yes, master; I will speak you a copy of verses that allude
to rivers and fishing:

    Come, live with me, and be my love,
    And we will some new pleasures prove;
    Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
    With silken lines, and silver hooks.

    When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
    Each fish, which every channel hath,
    Most amorously to thee will swim,
    Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.

    Let others freeze with angling reeds,
    And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
    Or treacherously poor fish beget
    With trangling snare or windowy net;

    For thee, thou need'st no such deceit,
    For thou, thyself, art thine own bait,
    That fish, that is not catched thereby
    Is wiser far, alas, than I!

_Piscator._ I thank you for these choice verses. And I will now tell
you of the Eel, which is a most dainty fish. The Romans have esteemed
her the Helena of their feasts. Sir Francis Bacon will allow the Eel to
live but ten years; but he mentions a Lamprey, belonging to the Roman
Emperor, that was made tame and kept for three-score years; so that
when she died, Crassus, the orator, lamented her death.

I will tell you next how to make the Eel a most excellent dish of meat.

First, wash him in water and salt, then pull off his skin and clean
him; then give him three or four scotches with a knife; and then put
into him sweet herbs, an anchovy and a little nutmeg. Then pull his
skin over him, and tie him with pack-thread; and baste him with butter,
and what he drips, be his sauce. And when I dress an Eel thus, I wish
he were a yard and three-quarters long. But they are not so proper to
be talked of by me because they make us anglers no sport.

The Barbel, so called by reason of his barb or wattles, and the
Gudgeon, are both fine fish of excellent shape.

My further purpose was to give you directions concerning Roach and
Dace, but I will forbear. I see yonder, brother Peter. But I promise
you, to-morrow as we walk towards London, if I have forgotten anything
now I will not then keep it from you.

_Venator._ Come, we will all join together and drink a cup to our
jovial host, and so to bed. I say good-night to everybody.

_Piscator._ And so say I.


_Walking Homewards_

_Piscator._ I will tell you, my honest scholar, I once heard one say,
"I envy not him that eats better meat, or wears better clothes than I
do; I envy him only that catches more fish than I do."

And there be other little fish that I had almost forgot, such as the
Minnow or Penk; the dainty Loach; the Miller's-Thumb, of no pleasing
shape; the Stickle-bag, good only to make sport for boys and women
anglers.

Well, scholar, I could tell you many things of the rivers of this
nation, the chief of which is the Thamisis; of fish-ponds, and how to
breed fish within them, and how to order your lines and baits for the
several fishes; but, I will tell you some of the thoughts that have
possessed my soul since we met together. And you shall join with me
in thankfulness to the Giver of every good and perfect gift for our
happiness; which may appear the greater when we consider how many, even
at this very time, lie under the torment, and the stone, the gout, and
tooth-ache; and all these we are free from.

Since we met, others have met disasters, some have been blasted, and
we have been free from these. What is a far greater mercy, we are free
from the insupportable burden of an accusing conscience.

Let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estates, that
would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like
us; who have eat, and drank, and laughed, and angled, and sung, and
slept; and rose next day, and cast away care, and sung, and laughed,
and angled again.

I have a rich neighbour that is always so busy that he has no leisure
to laugh. He says that Solomon says, "The diligent man makest
rich"; but, he considers not what was wisely said by a man of great
observation, "That there be as many miseries beyond riches, as on this
side them."

Let me tell you, scholar, Diogenes walked one day through a country
fair, where he saw ribbons, and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and
fiddles, and many other gimcracks; and said to his friend, "Lord, how
many things are there in this world Diogenes hath no need!"

All this is told you to incline you to thankfulness: though the prophet
David was guilty of murder and many other of the most deadly sins, yet
he was said to be a man after God's own heart, because he abounded with
thankfulness.

Well, scholar, I have almost tired myself, and I fear, more than tired
you.

But, I now see Tottenham High Cross, which puts a period to our too
long discourse, in which my meaning was to plant that in your mind with
which I labour to possess my own soul--that is, a meek and thankful
heart. And, to that end, I have showed you that riches without them do
not make a man happy. But riches with them remove many fears and cares.
Therefore, my advice is, that you endeavour to be honestly rich, or
contentedly poor; but be sure your riches be justly got; for it is well
said by Caussin, "He that loses his conscience, has nothing left that
is worth the keeping." So look to that. And in the next place, look to
your health, for health is a blessing that money cannot buy. As for
money, neglect it not, and, if you have a competence, enjoy it with a
cheerful, thankful heart.

_Venator._ Well, master, I thank you for all your good directions, and
especially for this last, of thankfulness. And now being at Tottenham
High Cross, I will requite a part of your courtesies with a drink
composed of sack, milk, oranges, and sugar, which, all put together,
make a drink like nectar indeed; and too good for anybody, but us
anglers. So, here is a full glass to you.

_Piscator._ And I to you, sir.

_Venator._ Sir, your company and discourse have been so pleasant that I
truly say, that I have only lived since I enjoyed it an turned angler,
and not before.

I will not forget the doctrines Socrates taught his scholars, that they
should not think to be honoured for being philosophers, so much as to
honour philosophy by the virtue of their lives. You advised me to the
like concerning angling, and to live like those same worthy men. And
this is my firm resolution.

And when I would beget content, I will walk the meadows, by some
gliding stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no care.
That is my purpose; and so, "let the blessing of St. Peter's Master be
with mine."

_Piscator._ And upon all that are lovers of virtue, and be quiet, and
go a-angling.




_Index_


  In the following Index the Roman Numerals refer to the _Volumes_,
  and the Arabic Numerals to _Pages_. The numerals in heavy, or
  =black-faced= type, indicate the place where the _biographical_
  notice will be found.

  Abbé Constantine, The  V 38

  ABÉLARD AND HÉLOÏSE  =IX= 1

  ABOUT, EDMOND  =I= 1

  Adam Bede  IV 33

  ADDISON, JOSEPH  =XVI= 1;  XX 1

  Advancement of Learning, The  XIII 321

  Adventures of Mr. Verdant Green, The  II 41

  Advice to Young Men  XX 78

  ÆSCHYLUS  =XVI= 16 _seq._

  ÆSOP  =XX= 10

  Africa: see Vol. XIX

  Agamemnon, The  XVI 16

  Age of Reason, The  XIII 196

  Aids to Reflection  XIII 84

  AINSWORTH, HARRISON  =I= 17

  Albert N'Yanza, The  XIX 1

  Alcestis  XVI 336

  Alice's Adventures in Wonderland  II 176

  All for Love  XVI 322

  Alton Locke  V 236

  Ambrosio, or the Monk  VI 51

  Amelia  IV 122

  America, History of:
    Mexico  XII 19;
    Peru  XII 30;
    United States  XII 1;
    see also WASHINGTON, FRANKLIN, etc.

  ----, Democracy in  XX 324

  ----, Wanderings in South  XIX 313

  Anabasis, The  XI 110

  Anatomy of Melancholy, The  XX 41

  ---- of Vertebrates  XV 280

  ANDERSEN, HANS CHRISTIAN  =I= 30

  Angler, The Complete  XX 334

  Animal Chemistry  XV 203

  Anna Karenina  VIII 205

  Annals of the Parish  IV 204

  ---- of Tacitus  XI 156

  Antigone  XVIII 237

  Antiquary, The  VII 241

  Antiquities of the Jews  XI 43

  APOCRYPHA, THE  =XIII= 1

  Apologia Pro Vita Sua  XIII 185

  Apology, or Defence of Socrates  XIV 75

  APULEIUS  =I= 45

  ARABIAN NIGHTS  =I= 61

  Arcadia  VIII 54

  Areopagitica  XX 257

  ARIOSTO, LUDOVICO  =XVI= 51

  ARISTOPHANES  =XVI= 64 _seq._

  ARISTOTLE  =XIII= 291

  Arne  I 274

  ARNOLD, MATTHEW  =XX= 18

  Arnold, Life of Thomas  X 260

  Astronomy, Outlines of  XV 146

  Atala  II 224

  Atta Troll  XVII 50

  AUCASSIN AND NICOLETTE  =I= 79

  AUERBACH, BERTHOLD  =I= 93

  AUGUSTINE, SAINT  =IX= 24;  XIII 29

  AURELIUS (MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS)  =XIII= 307

  Aurora Leigh  XVI 144

  AUSTEN, JANE  =I= 109 _seq._

  Authority of Scripture, The  XIII 129

  Autobiography of Alexander Carlyle  IX 91

  Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini  IX 120

  ---- of Benjamin Franklin  IX 247

  ---- of Flavius Josephus  X 61

  Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, The  XX 181


  BACON, FRANCIS  =XIII= 321

  BAGEHOT, WALTER  =XII= 88

  BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES  =XVI= 86

  BAKER, SIR SAMUEL  =XIX= 1

  BALZAC, HONORÉ DE  =I= 188 _seq._

  Barber of Seville, The  XVI 101

  Barchester Towers  VIII 233

  Barnaby Rudge  III 53

  BAXTER, RICHARD  =XIII= 37

  Beaconsfield, Earl of: see DISRAELI, BENJAMIN

  BEAUMARCHAIS, P.A. CARON DE  =XVI= 101 _seq._

  BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER  =XVI= 133

  BECKFORD, WILLIAM  =I= 244

  BEHN, APHRA  =I= 255

  Belinda  IV 13

  BELLAMY, EDWARD  =XIV= 173

  BENTHAM, JEREMY  =XIV= 186

  Bérénice  XVIII 106

  BERGERAC, CYRANO DE  =I= 265

  BERKELEY, GEORGE  =XIII= 329

  Bernard, Life of Saint  X 135

  Betrothed, The  VI 169

  Beyle, Henri: see STENDHAL

  Bible in Spain, The  XIX 22

  Biographia Literaria  IX 166

  Biology, Principles of  XIV 133

  Birds, The  XVI 64

  BJÖRNSON, BJÖRNSTJERNE  =I= 274 _seq._

  BLACK, WILLIAM  =I= 300

  Black Prophet, The  II 164

  ---- Tulip, The  III 281

  BLACKMORE, R. D.  =I= 313

  Bleak House  III 66

  BLOCH, JEAN  =XIV= 199

  Blot in the 'Scutcheon, A  XVI 154

  BOCCACCIO, GIOVANNI  =I= 327

  BOOK OF THE DEAD  =XIII= 47

  BORROW, GEORGE  =II= 1 _seq._;  XIX 13 _seq._

  BOSWELL, JAMES  =IX= 37;  XIX 37

  Bothwell  IV 301

  BRADDON, M. E.  =II= 27

  BRADLEY, EDWARD ("Cuthbert Bede")  =II= 41

  BRAHMANISM, BOOKS OF  =XIII= 59

  BRAMWELL, JOHN MILNE  =XV= 1

  BRANDES, GEORGE  =XX= 31

  BREWSTER, SIR DAVIS  =IX= 66

  BRONTË, CHARLOTTE  =II= 54 _seq._;
    "Life of"  =IX= 259

  BRONTË, EMILY  =II= 97

  BROWNE, SIR THOMAS  =XIII= 66

  BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT  =XVI= 144

  BROWNING, ROBERT  =XVI= 154 _seq._

  BRUCE, JAMES  =XIX= 47

  BUCHANAN, ROBERT  =II= 111

  BUCKLE, HENRY  =XII= 76

  BUFFON, COMTE DE  =XV= 12

  BUNYAN, JOHN  =II= 124 _seq._;  =IX= 79

  BURCKHARDT, JOHN LEWIS  =XIX= 57

  BURKE, EDMUND  =XIV= 212

  BURNEY, FANNY  =II= 150

  Burns, Life of Robert  X 86

  BURTON, ROBERT  =XX= 41

  BURTON, SIR RICHARD  =XIX= 67

  BUTLER, SAMUEL  =XVI= 177

  BUTLER, SIR WILLIAM  =XIX=79 _seq._

  BYRON, LORD  =XVI= 188 _seq._;
    "Life of"  X 122


  CÆSAR, JULIUS  =XI= 144

  CALDERON DE LA BARCA  =XVI= 206

  Caleb Williams  IV 241

  Caliph Vathek, History of  I 244

  Called Back  II 274

  CALVIN, JOHN  =XIII= 75

  Canterbury Tales, The  XVI 226

  Capital: A Critical Analysis  XIV 282

  Captain's Daughter, The  VII 42

  Captain Singleton  III 41

  CARLETON, WILLIAM  =II= 164

  CARLYLE, ALEXANDER  =IX= 91

  CARLYLE, THOMAS  =IX= 99;  XII 147;  XII 188;  XX 50 _seq._

  Carmen  VI 239

  CARROLL, LEWIS  =II= 176

  Castle of Otranto  VIII 303

  ---- Rackrent  IV 21

  Catiline, Conspiracy of  XI 168

  Cato: A Tragedy  XVI 1

  CATULLUS, GAIUS VALERIUS  =XVI= 219

  CELLINI, BENVENUTO  =IX= 120

  Cellular Pathology  XV 292

  CERVANTES, MIGUEL  =II= 198

  CHAMBERS, ROBERT  =XV= 22

  CHAMISSO, ADALBERT VON  =II= 212

  Characters  XX 193

  Charles XII, History of  XII 280

  ---- O'Malley  VI 26

  Chartreuse of Parma, The  VIII 103

  CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANÇOIS RENÉ VICOMTE DE  =II= 224;  IX 124

  CHAUCER, GEOFFREY  =XVI= 226

  Chemical History of a Candle, The  XV 85

  ---- Philosophy, Elements of  XV 64

  Chemistry, Animal  XV 203

  CHERBULIEZ, CHARLES VICTOR  =II= 235

  CHESTERFIELD, EARL OF  =IX= 144

  Childe Harold's Pilgrimage  XVI 188

  Childhood, Boyhood, Youth  X 291

  China's Four Books: see CONFUCIANISM

  Christ, Imitation of  XIII 160

  Christian Religion, Institution of the  XIII 75

  Christianity, History of Latin: see Papacy

  Chronicles of England, Scotland, and Ireland  XI 286

  CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS  =IX= 155;  XX 70

  Cid, The  XVI 267

  Citizen of the World, The  XX 149

  City of Dreadful Night, The  XVIII 293

  ---- of God, The  XIII 29

  Civilisation in Europe, History of  XI 241

  Clarendon, Earl of: see HYDE, EDWARD

  Clarissa Harlowe  VII 118

  Cloister and the Hearth, The  VII 92

  COBBETT, WILLIAM  =XX= 78

  Cobden, Life of Richard  X 144

  COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR  =IX= 166;  XIII 84

  Collegians, The  V 13

  COLLINS, WILKIE  =II= 249 _seq._

  Columbus, Life of Christopher  X 41

  Commentaries on the Gallic War  XI 144

  Complete Angler, The  XX 334

  COMTE, AUGUSTE  =XIV= 244

  Concerning Friendship  XX 70

  ---- the Human Understanding  XIV 56

  Confessions, My (Count Tolstoy)  X 301

  ---- of Augustine  IX 24

  ---- of an English Opium Eater  IX 189

  ---- of Jean Jacques Rousseau  X 190

  CONFUCIANISM  =XIII= 93

  CONGREVE, WILLIAM  =XVI= 246 _seq._

  Coningsby  III 227

  Conspiracy of Catiline, The  XI 168

  Consuelo  VII 205

  Conversations with Eckerman  IX 303

  ----, Imaginary  XX 203

  CONWAY, HUGH  =II= 274

  COOK, JAMES  =XIX= 100

  COOPER, FENIMORE  =II= 285 _seq._

  Corinne  VIII 89

  CORNEILLE, PIERRE  =XVI= 267 _seq._

  Corsican Brothers, The  III 292

  Cosmos, A Sketch of the Universe  XV 158

  Count of Monte Cristo, The  III 304

  Courtships of (Queen) Elizabeth, The  X 13

  COWPER, WILLIAM  =IX= 177;  XVI 290

  CRAIK, MRS.  =II= 312

  Cranford  IV 215

  Creation, Vestiges of  XV 22

  Crescent and the Cross, The  XIX 299

  Critique of Practical Reason  XIV 34

  ---- of Pure Reason  XIV 24

  CROLY, GEORGE  =II= 324

  Cromwell, Letters and Speeches of Oliver  IX 99

  Cuthbert Bede: see BRADLEY, EDWARD

  CUVIER, GEORGES  =XV= 33


  DAMPIER, WILLIAM  =XIX= 112

  DANA, RICHARD HENRY  =II= 335

  DANTE ALIGHIERI  =XVI= 300 _seq._

  DARWIN, CHARLES  =XV= 43;  XIX 124

  DAUDET, ALPHONSE  =III= 1

  Daughter of Heth, A  I 300

  David Copperfield  III 79

  DA VINCI, LEONARDO  =XX= 227

  DAVY, SIR HUMPHRY  =XV= 64

  Dawn of Civilisation, The  XI 1

  DAY, THOMAS  =III= 14

  Dead Man's Diary, A  V 224

  Death of the Gods, The  VI 227

  Decameron, The, or Ten Days' Entertainment  I 327

  Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire  XI 174 _seq._;  XI 229

  Deeds and Words  X 1

  DEFOE, DANIEL  =III= 26 _seq._;  XX 90

  Democracy in America  XX 324

  DEMOSTHENES  =XX= 99

  DE QUINCEY, THOMAS  =IX= 189

  DESCARTES, RENÉ  =XIII= 337

  Desert, The  XIX 201

  Dialogues on the System of the World  XV 105

  Diary of John Evelyn  IX 213

  ---- of Samuel Pepys  X 154

  DICKENS, CHARLES  =III= 53 _seq._

  Discourse on Method  XIII 337

  Discourses and Encheiridion (Epictetus)  XIII 358

  ---- with Himself (M. Aurelius)  XIII 307

  Discovery of the Source of the Nile  XIX 251

  DISRAELI, BENJAMIN  =III= 227 _seq._

  Divine Comedy, The  XVI 300 _seq._

  Doctor in Spite of Himself, The  XVII 362

  Dombey and Son  III 94

  Don Juan  XVI 197

  ---- Quixote, Life and Adventures of  II 198

  Drink  VIII 318

  DRYDEN, JOHN  =XVI= 322

  DUBOIS, FÉLIX  =XIX= 136

  DUMAS, ALEXANDRE (_père_)  =III= 269 _seq._;  =IX= 201 (Memoirs)

  Dutch Republic, Rise of the  XII 220


  Earth, Theory of the  XV 170

  EBERS, GEORGE  =IV= 1

  Eckerman, Goethe's Conversations with  IX 303

  EDGEWORTH, MARIA  =IV= 13 _seq._

  Education  XIV 120

  Egypt:
    Ancient History  XI 1 _seq._;
    Mediæval History  XI 272;
    Religion  XIII 47

  Egyptian Princess, An  IV 1

  Electricity, Experimental Researches in  XV 75

  ---- and Magnetism, Treatise on  XV 227

  Elements of Chemical Philosophy  XV 64

  ELIOT, GEORGE  =IV= 33 _seq._

  ELIOT, SAMUEL  =XII= 1

  Elizabeth, Queen:
    Courtships  X 13;
    "Life"  X 270

  ELPHINSTONE, MOUNTSTUART  =XII= 246

  Elsie Venner  V 87

  EMERSON, RALPH WALDO  =XIII= 349;  XX 109 _seq._

  Emma  I 162

  England, History of:
    Buckle  XII 76;
    Freeman  XI 298;
    Froude  XI 315;
    Holinshed  XI 286;
    Macaulay  XII 55;
    Rebellion (1642)  XII 41

  English Constitution, The  XII 88

  ----, Letters on the  XIX 275

  ---- Literature, History of  XX 298

  ---- Poets, Lectures on the  XX 169

  ---- Traits  XX 109

  Eothen  XIV 159

  EPICTETUS  =XIII= 358

  Epigrams, Epitaphs, and Poems of Martial  XVII 295

  ERASMUS, DESIDERIUS  =XX= 126 _seq._

  ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN  =IV= 97

  Essay on Liberty  XX 248

  ---- on Man  XVIII 94

  Essays in Criticism  XX 18

  ---- in Eugenics  XV 111

  ---- of Montaigne  XIV 64

  ---- Moral and Political  XIV 13

  Ethics of Aristotle  XIII 291

  ---- of Spinoza  XIV 160

  Eugene Aram  VI 87

  Eugénie Grandet  I 188

  EURIPIDES  =XVI= 336

  Europe:
    History of Civilisation in  XI 241;
    in Middle Ages  XI 255;
    Literature of  XX 158

  Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie  XVII 241

  Evelina  II 150

  EVELYN, JOHN  =IX= 213

  EVERYMAN  =XVI= 348

  Every Man in His Humour  XVII 195

  Evolution of Man, The  XV 123

  Existence of God, The  XIII 117

  Experimental Researches in Electricity  XV 75


  Fables of Æsop  XX 10

  Familiar Colloquies  XX 126

  FARADAY, MICHAEL  =XV= 75 _seq._

  Fathers and Sons  VIII 245

  Faust  XVI 362

  Faustus, Tragical History of Dr.  XVII 282

  Felix Holt, The Radical  IV 45

  FÉNELON, DE LA MOTHE  =XIII= 117

  Ferdinand and Isabella, Reign of  XII 271

  Festus: A Poem  XVI 86

  FEUILLET, OCTAVE  =IV= 100

  FIELDING, HENRY  =IV= 122 _seq._

  Figaro, The Marriage of XVI

  File No. 113  IV 192

  FINLAY, GEORGE  =XII= 206

  FLAMMARION, CAMILLE  =IV= 168

  FLETCHER; See BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER

  FOREL, AUGUSTE  =XV= 95

  FORSTER, JOHN  =IX= 225

  FOUQUÉ, DE LA MOTTE  =IV= 180

  FOX, GEORGE,  =IX= 238

  Fragments of an Intimate Diary  IX 13

  France, History of:
    Girondists  XII 165;
    Louis XIV,  XII 101;
    Modern Régime  XII 177;
    Old Régime  XII 117;
    Revolution (Burke)  XIV 212, (Carlyle)  XII 147, (Mignet)  XII 129;
    see also (Memoirs, etc.) La Rochefoucauld, Mirabeau, de Staal,
          de Sévigné, etc.

  ----, Travels in  XIX 327

  ---- and Italy, Sentimental Journey Through  XIX 263

  Frankenstein  VIII 41

  FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN  =IX= 247

  Frederick the Great  XII 188

  FREEMAN, EDWARD A.  =XI= 298

  Friendship, Concerning  XX 70

  Frogs, The  XVI 72

  FROUDE, JAMES ANTHONY  =XI= 315

  Future of War, The  XIV 199


  GABORIAU, ÉMILE  =IV= 192

  GALILEO GALILEI  =XIII= 129;  =XV= 105

  Gallic War, Cæsar's Commentaries on the  XI 144

  GALT, JOHN  =IV= 204

  GALTON, SIR FRANCIS  =XV= 111

  Garden of Allah, The  V 73

  Gargantua and Pantagruel  VII 54

  GASKELL, MRS.  =IV= 215 _seq._;  IX 259

  Geoffry Hamlyn  V 306

  Geology, Principles of XV

  GEORGE, HENRY  =XIV= 238

  Germania  XX 286

  Germany, On  XX 276

  GESTA ROMANORUM  =XX= 140

  GIBBON, EDWARD  =IX= 272 (Memoirs);  =XI= 174 _seq._;  XI 229

  Gil Blas  VI 14

  Girondists, History of the  XII 165

  GODWIN, WILLIAM  =IV= 241

  GOETHE, JOHANN WOLFGANG VON  =IV= 253 _seq._;  IX 283 _seq._;  XVI 362;
         XVII 1 _seq._

  Goetz von Berlichingen  XVII 1

  GOGOL, NICOLAI  =XVII= 30

  Golden Ass, The  I 45

  GOLDSMITH, OLIVER  =IV= 275 _seq._;  XVII 39;  XX 149

  GONCOURT, EDMOND and JULES DE  =IV= 289

  Götterdämmerung  XVIII 336

  Grace Abounding  IX 79

  Grammont, Memoirs of the Count de  IX 324

  GRANT, JAMES  =IV= 301

  GRAY, MAXWELL  =V= 1

  GRAY, THOMAS  =IX= 315

  Great Expectations  III 106

  ---- Lone Land, The  XIX 79

  Greece, History of  XI 81 _seq._;
    (modern)  XII 206

  GRIFFIN, GERALD  =V= 13

  GROTE, GEORGE  =XI= 122

  GUIZOT, FRANÇOIS PIERRE GUILLAME  =XI= 241

  Gulliver's Travels  VIII 157

  Guy Mannering  VII 255


  HABBERTON, JOHN  =V= 26

  HAECKEL, ERNST  =XV= 123

  Hajji Baba of Ispahan, The Adventures of  VI 276

  HAKLUYT, RICHARD  =XIX= 148

  HALEVY, LUDOVIC  =V= 38

  HALLAM, HENRY  =XI= 255;  XX 158

  HAMILTON, ANTHONY  =IX= 324

  Hamlet  XVIII 170

  Handy Andy  VI 75

  Hard Cash  VII 68

  ---- Times  III 118

  HARVEY, WILLIAM  =XV= 136

  HAWTHORNE, NATHANIEL  =V= 50 _seq._;  IX 336

  HAZLITT, WILLIAM  =XX= 169

  Headlong Hall  VII 1

  Heart of Midlothian, The  VII 267

  Heaven and Hell  XIII 249

  HEGEL, GEORG WILHELM FRIEDRICH  =XIII= 138;  XIV 1

  HEINE, HEINRICH  =XVII= 50

  Helen's Babies  V 26

  Henry Masterton  V 187

  Hereward the Wake  V 248

  Hernani  XVII 110

  HERODOTUS  =XI= 81

  Heroes and Hero Worship, On  XX 50

  HERSCHEL, SIR JOHN  =XV= 146

  Hesperus  VII 143

  Hiawatha, The Song of  XVII 250

  HICHENS, ROBERT  =V= 73

  HINDUISM, BOOKS OF  =XIII= 150

  History, Philosophy of,  XIV 1

  ---- of Philosophy  XIV 45

  ---- of the Caliph Vathek  I 244

  HOBBES, THOMAS  =XIV= 249

  HOLINSHED, RAPHAEL  =XI= 286

  Holland: See Dutch Republic and United Netherlands

  HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL  =V= 87;  XX 181

  Holy Roman Empire, History of  XI 229;
    see also Papacy

  ---- War, The  II 124

  HOMER  =XVII= 66 _seq._

  HORACE (Q. HORATIUS FLACCUS)  =XVII= 91

  House of the Seven Gables, The  V 60

  Household of Sir Thomas More, The  VI 155

  Hudibras  XVI 177

  HUGHES, THOMAS  =V= 99 _seq._

  Hugo, Victor  =V= 122 _seq._;  =X= 1;  XVII 110 _seq._

  HUMBOLDT, ALEXANDER VON  =XV= 158

  HUME, DAVID  =XIV= 13

  HUME, MARTIN  =X= 13

  HUTTON, JAMES  =XV= 170

  HYDE, EDWARD (Earl of Clarendon)  =XII= 41

  Hypatia  V 260

  Hypnotism: Its History, Practice and Theory  XV 1


  IBSEN, HENRIK  =XVII= 171 _seq._

  Idylls of the King  XVIII 261

  Iliad, The  XVII 66

  Imaginary Conversations  XX 203

  Imitation of Christ, The  XIII 160

  Improvisatore, The  I 30

  INCHBALD, MRS. (ELIZABETH)  =V= 174

  India, History of:  XII 246;
    Religion: see BRAHMANISM, HINDUISM

  In God's Way  I 287

  ---- Memoriam  XVIII 277

  ---- Praise of Folly  XX 132

  Insects, Senses of  XV 95

  Inspector General, The  XVII 30

  Institution of the Christian Religion  XIII 75

  Introduction to the Literature of Europe  XX 158

  Iphigenia in Tauris  XVII 18

  Ironmaster, The  VI 314

  IRVING, WASHINGTON  =X= 41

  It Is Never Too Late To Mend  VII 79

  Ivanhoe  VII 280


  JAMES, G. P. R.  =V= 187

  Jane Eyre  II 54

  Jerusalem Delivered  XVIII 250

  Jesus, Life of  XIII 231

  Jews:
    History and Antiquities of  XI 43 _seq._;
    Religion (TALMUD)  XIII 259

  John Halifax, Gentleman  II 312

  JOHNSON, SAMUEL  =V= 199;
    "Life of"  =IX= 37

  JOKAI, MAURICE  =V= 212

  Jonathan Wild  IV 133

  JONSON, BEN  =XVII= 195

  Joseph Andrews  IV 143

  JOSEPHUS, FLAVIUS  =X= 61;  XI 43

  Joshua Davidson  VI 63

  Journal of George Fox  IX 238

  ---- of the Plague Year, A  XX 90

  ---- to Stella  X 282

  ---- of a Tour to the Hebrides  XIX 37

  ---- of John Wesley  X 327

  ---- of John Woolman  X 341

  Journey Round My Room, A  VI 136

  JUVENAL  =XVII= 207


  KANT, IMMANUEL  =XIV= 24 _seq._

  KEMPIS, THOMAS À  =XIII= 160

  Kenilworth  VII 293

  KERNAHAN, COULSON  =V= 224

  King Amuses Himself, The  XVII 145

  ---- of the Mountains, The  I 1

  KINGLAKE, A. W.  =XIX= 159

  KINGSLEY, CHARLES  =V= 236 _seq._

  ----, Henry  V 306

  KLOPSTOCK, FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB  =XVII= 217

  Knights, The  XVI 79

  KORAN, THE  =XIII= 169


  LA BRUYÈRE  =XX= 193

  Lady Audley's Secret  II 27

  ---- of the Lake, The  XVIII 160

  LAMARCK, JEAN BAPTISTE  =XV= 179

  LAMARTINE, A. M. L. DE  =XII= 165

  LAMB, CHARLES and MARY  =XVIII= 170

  LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE  =XX= 203

  LANE-POOLE, STANLEY  =XI= 272

  Laocoon  XX 239

  LA ROCHEFOUCAULD, FRANÇOIS DUC DE  =X= 203 (Memoirs);  XX 215

  Last of the Barons, The  VI 113

  ---- of the Mohicans, The  II 285

  ---- Days of Pompeii, The  VI 99

  LAVATER, JOHANN  =XV= 191

  Lavengro  II 1

  Laws, The Spirit of  XIV 306

  LAYARD, AUSTEN HENRY  =XIX= 171

  Lazarillo de Tormes  VI 217

  Lectures on the English Poets  XX 169

  LE FANU, SHERIDAN  =VI= 1

  Legend of the Ages, The  XVII 159

  Legislation, Principles of Morals and  XIV 186

  LEONARDO DA VINCI  =XX= 227

  LE SAGE, RENÉ  =VI= 14

  LESSING, GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM  =XVII= 226;  XX 239

  Letters of Abélard and Héloïse  IX 1

  ---- of Cicero  IX 155

  ---- on the English  XIX 275

  ---- of Thomas Gray  IX 315

  ---- to His Son, Lord Chesterfield's  IX 144

  ---- of Pliny the Younger  X 166

  ---- to a Provincial  XIII 209

  ---- of Mme. de Sévigné  X 216

  ---- Written in the Years 1782-86  IX 177

  ---- to Zelter  IX 283

  ---- and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, Carlyle's  IX 99

  LEVER, CHARLES  =VI= 26 _seq._

  Leviathan, The  XIV 249

  LEWES, GEORGE HENRY  =XIV= 45

  LEWES, M. G.  =VI= 51

  Liar, The  XVI 279

  Liberty, Essay on  XX 248

  LIEBIG, JUSTUS VON  =XV= 203

  Life, Prolongation of  XV 246

  Life of Thomas Arnold  X 260

  ---- of Saint Bernard  X 135

  ---- of Robert Burns  X 86

  ---- of Charlotte Brontë  IX 259

  ---- of Lord Byron  X 122

  ---- of Cobden  X 144

  ---- of Christopher Columbus  X 41

  ---- of Queen Elizabeth  X 270

  ---- of Goldsmith  IX 225

  ---- of Jesus  XIII 231

  ---- of Dr. Johnson  IX 37

  ---- of Nelson  X 226

  ---- of Sir Isaac Newton  IX 66

  ---- of Pitt  X 248

  ---- of Girolamo Savonarola  X 312

  ---- of Schiller  IX 111

  ---- of Sir Walter Scott  X 70

  ---- of George Washington  X 51

  LINNAEUS, CAROLUS  =XIX= 181

  LINTON, MRS. LYNN  =VI= 63

  Literature, History of English  XX 298

  ----, Main Currents of 19th Century  XX 31

  ---- of Europe, Introduction to the  XX 158

  ----: see also M. ARNOLD, HAZLITT, etc.

  Little Dorrit  III 131

  LIVINGSTONE, DAVID  =XIX= 191

  LOCKE, JOHN  =XIV= 56

  LOCKHART, JOHN GIBSON  =X= 70

  LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH  =XVII= 241 _seq._

  Looking Backward  XIV 173

  Lorna Doone  I 313

  LORRIS and DE MEUN, DE  =XVIII= 117

  Lost Sir Massingberd  VI 336

  LOTI, PIERRE  =XIX= 201

  Louis XIV, The Age of  XII 101

  Love Affairs of Mary Queen of Scots, The  X 27

  ---- Letters of Abélard and Héloïse  IX 1

  LOVER, SAMUEL  =VI= 75

  LUCRETIUS  =XVII= 261

  LUTHER, MARTIN  =X= 102

  LYELL, SIR CHARLES  =XV= 215

  LYTTON, EDWARD BULWER  =VI= 87 _seq._


  MACAULAY, LORD  =XII= 55

  Macbeth  XVIII 180

  MACHIAVELLI, NICCOLO  =XIV= 261

  MACKENZIE, HENRY  =VI= 124

  MACPHERSON, JAMES  =XVII= 272

  Magic Skin, The  I 213

  Magnetism, Treatise on Electricity and  XV 227

  Main Currents of Nineteenth Century Literature  XX 31

  MAISTRE, XAVIER DE  =VI= 136

  MALORY, SIR THOMAS  =VI= 145

  MALTHUS, T. R.  =XIV= 270

  Man, Essay on  XVIII 94

  ----, Evolution of  XV 123

  ----, Nature of  XV 238

  ----, The Rights of  XIV 324

  ---- of Feeling, The  VI 124

  ---- Who Laughs, The  V 162

  MANDEVILLE, SIR JOHN  =XIX= 210

  MANNING, ANNE  =VI= 155

  Mansfield Park  I 150

  Mansie Wauch  VI 262

  MANZONI, ALESSANDRO  =VI= 169

  Marguerite de Valois  III 269

  Marion de Lorme  XVII 123

  MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER  =XVII= 282

  Marmion  XVIII 147

  Marriage of Figaro, The  XVI 116

  MARRYAT, CAPTAIN  =VI= 181 _seq._

  MARTIAL  =XVII= 295

  Martin Chuzzlewit  III 143

  Mary Barton  IV 228

  ---- Queen of Scots, Love Affairs of  X 27

  MARX, KARL  =XIV= 282

  MASPERO, GASTON  =XI= 1 _seq._

  MASSINGER, PHILIP  =XVII= 305

  Master Builder, The  XVII 171

  MATURIN, CHARLES  =VI= 205

  Mauprat  VII 217

  MAXWELL, JAMES CLERK  =XV= 227

  Mayor of Zalamea, The  XVI 206

  Melancholy, Anatomy of XX

  Melmoth the Wanderer  VI 205

  Memoirs of Alexander Dumas  IX 201

  ---- from Beyond the Grave  IX 134

  ---- of the Count de Grammont  IX 324

  ---- of the Duc De La Rochefoucauld  X 203

  ---- of Edward Gibbon  IX 272

  ---- of Mirabeau  X 111

  ---- of Mme. de Staal  X 238

  Men, Representative  XX 118;
    see also PLUTARCH, etc.

  MENDOZA, DIEGO DE  =VI= 217

  Merchant of Venice  XVIII 186

  MEREJKOWSKI, DMITRI  =VI= 227

  MÉRIMÉE, PROSPER  =VI= 239

  Messiah, The  XVII 217

  Metamorphoses  XVIII 64

  METCHNIKOFF, ELIE  =XV= 238 _seq._

  Mexico, History of the Conquest of  XII 19

  Middle Ages: History, see Vol XI

  ----, GESTA ROMANORUM: A Story-book of the  XX 140

  Midshipman Easy, Mr.  VI 181

  Midsummer Night's Dream, A  XVIII 196

  MIGNET, FRANÇOIS  =XII= 129

  MILL, JOHN STUART  =XIV= 294;  XX 248

  Mill on the Floss, The  IV 85

  MILLER, HUGH  =XV= 255

  MILMAN, HENRY  =XI= 68;  XII 289

  MILTON, JOHN  =XVII= 319;  XX 257

  MIRABEAU, HONORÉ GABRIEL COMTE DE  =X= 111

  Misanthrope, The  XVIII 1

  Misérables, Les  V 122

  Missionary Travels and Researches  XIX 191

  MITFORD, MARY RUSSELL  =VI= 251

  Modern Régime  XII 177

  MOIR, DAVID  =VI= 262

  MOLIÈRE  =XVII= 362;  XVIII 1 _seq._

  MOMMSEN, THEODOR  =XI= 215

  MONTAIGNE  =XIV= 64

  Monte Cristo, The Count of  III 304

  MONTESQUIEU  =XIV= 306

  MOORE, THOMAS  =X= 122

  Moral Maxims, Reflections and  XX 215

  Morals and Legislation, Principles of  XIV 186

  MORE, SIR THOMAS  =XIV= 315;
    "Household of"  VI 155

  MORIER, JAMES  =VI= 276

  MORISON, J. A. C.  =X= 135

  MORLEY, JOHN  =X= 144

  Morte D'Arthur  VI 145

  MOTLEY, JOHN LOTHROP  =XII= 220 _seq._

  Mourning Bride, The  XVI 246

  MURRAY, DAVID CHRISTIE  =VI= 288

  My Confession (Tolstoy)  X 301

  Mysteries of Paris, The  VIII 143


  Nathan the Wise  XVII 226

  Natural History  XV 12

  Nature  XIII 349

  ---- of Man  XV 238

  ---- of Things, On the  XVII 261

  Nelson, Life of  X 226

  Nest of Nobles, A  VIII 259

  Never Too Late to Mend  VII 79

  New Héloïse, The  VII 176

  ---- Voyage Around the World, A  XIX 112

  ---- Way to Pay Old Debts, A  XVII 305

  Newcomes, The  VIII 169

  NEWMAN, CARDINAL  =XIII= 185

  NEWTON, SIR ISAAC  =XV= 267

  NIBELUNGENLIED  =XVIII= 38;
    see also WAGNER (Nibelungen Ring)

  Nicholas Nickleby  III 154

  Nightmare Abbey  VII 15

  Nineveh and Its Remains  XIX 171

  No Name  II 249

  Norman Conquest of England. The  XI 298

  NORRIS, FRANK  =VI= 301

  Northanger Abbey  I 138

  Notre Dame de Paris  V 133


  Odes of Horace  XVI 102

  ---- of Pindar  XVIII 75

  Odyssey, The  XVII 78

  OHNET, GEORGES  =VI= 314

  Old Curiosity Shop, The  III 179

  ---- Goriot  I 200

  ---- Mortality  VII 306

  ---- Red Sandstone, The  XV 255

  ---- Régime  XII 117

  Oliver Twist  III 166

  On Benefits  XIV 109

  ---- Germany  XX 276

  ---- Heroes and Hero Worship  XX 50

  ---- the Height 193

  ---- the Motion of the Heart and Blood  XV 136

  ---- the Nature of Things  XVII 261

  ---- the Principle of Population  XIV 270

  Origin of Species, The  XV 43

  Orlando Furioso  XVI 51

  Oroonoko: The Royal Slave  I 255

  Ossian  XVII 272

  OTWAY, THOMAS  =XVIII= 48

  OUIDA (LOUISE DE LA RAMÉE)  =VI= 326

  Our Mutual Friend  III 190

  ---- Old Home  IX 336

  ---- Village  VI 251

  Outlines of Astronomy  XV 146

  OVID  =XVIII= 64

  OWEN, SIR RICHARD  =XV= 280


  PAINE, THOMAS  =XIII= 196;  XIV 324

  Painting, Treatise on  XX 227

  Pamela  VII 106

  Papacy, History of:  XII 289 _seq._;
    see also Holy Roman Empire

  Papers of the Forest School-Master  VII 165

  Paradise Lost  XVII 319

  ---- Regained  XVII 342

  Paradiso  XVI 314

  Parallel Lives  XX 266

  PARK, MUNGO  =XIX= 219

  PASCAL, BLAISE  =XIII= 209

  Passing of the Empire, The  XI 30

  Paul and Virginia  VII 192

  PAYN, JAMES  =VI= 336

  PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE  =VII= _seq._

  Peloponnesian War  XI 95

  PENN, WILLIAM  =XIII= 222

  PEPYS, SAMUEL  =X= 154

  Peregrine Pickle  VIII 76

  Persians, The  XVI 28

  Persuasion  I 174

  Peru, History of the Conquest of  XII 30

  Peter Schlemihl, the Shadowless Man  II 212

  ---- Simple  VI 193

  Peveril of the Peak  VII 318

  Philaster, or Love Lies A-Bleeding  XVI 133

  Philippics, The  XX 99

  Philosophy, A History of  XIV 45

  ---- of History, The  XIV 1

  ---- of Religion, The  XIII 138

  Physiognomical Fragments  XV 191

  Pickwick Papers  III 201

  Pilgrim's Progress, The  II 136

  Pilgrimage to El Medinah and Meccah, A  XIX 67

  Pillars of Society, The  XVII 186

  PINDAR  =XVIII= 75

  Pit, The  VI 301

  Pitt, Life of William  X 248

  Plague Year, Journal of the  XX 90

  PLATO  =XIV= 75 _seq._

  PLINY, THE YOUNGER  =X= 166

  PLUTARCH  =XX= 266

  Poems of Catullus  XVI 219

  ---- of Horace  XVII 91

  ---- of Martial  XVII 295

  Poetry and Truth from my Own Life  IX 291

  ----: see also Laocoon, Literature, etc.

  Poets, Lectures on the English  XX 169

  Political Testament of Cardinal Richelieu  X 178

  ---- Economy, Principles of  XIV 294

  POLO, MARCO  =XIX= 229

  POPE, ALEXANDER  =XVIII= 94

  Popes, History of the: See Papacy

  Population, On the Principle of  XIV 270

  PORTER, JANE  =VII= 28

  Positive Philosophy, A Course of  XIV 224

  PRESCOTT, WILLIAM HICKLING  =XII= 19 _seq._;  XII 271

  Pride and Prejudice  I 123

  Prince, The  XIV 261

  Principall Navigations, The  XIV 148

  Principia  XV 267

  Principles of Biology  XIV 133

  ---- of Geology, The  XV 215

  ---- of Human Knowledge  XIII 329

  ---- of Morals and Legislation  XIV 186

  ---- of Political Economy  XIV 294

  ---- of Sociology  XIV 145

  Progress and Poverty  XIV 238

  Prolongation of Life  XV 246

  Prometheus Bound  XVI 38

  Purgatorio  XVI 307

  PUSHKIN, ALEXANDER SERGEYVITCH  =VII= 42


  Quentin Durward  VIII 1

  Quest of the Absolute, The  I 227


  RABELAIS, FRANÇOIS  =VII= 54

  RACINE, JEAN  =XVIII= 106

  RANKE, LEOPOLD VON  =XII= 301

  Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia  V 199

  Ravenshoe  V 319

  READE, CHARLES  =VII= 68 _seq._

  Reflections and Moral Maxims  XX 215

  ---- on the Revolution in France  XIV 212

  Religio Medici  XIII 66

  RENAN, ERNEST  =XIII= 231

  Renée Mauperin  IV 289

  Representative Men  XX 118

  Republic, Plato's  XIV 84

  Revolt of Islam, The  XVIII 214

  Rheingold  XVIII 305

  RICHARDSON, SAMUEL  =VII= 106 _seq._

  RICHELIEU, CARDINAL  =X= 178

  RICHTER, JEAN PAUL FRIEDRICH  =VII= 143 _seq._

  Rights of Man, The  =XIV= 324

  Robinson Crusoe  III 26

  Rob Roy  VIII 13

  Rochefoucauld: See LA ROCHEFOUCAULD

  Roderick Random  VIII 64

  Romance of a Poor Young Man  IV 110

  ROMANCE OF THE ROSE  =XVIII= 117

  Romany Rye, The  II 13

  Rome, History of  XI 144 _seq._

  Romeo and Juliet  XVIII 203

  Romola  IV 58

  ROSSEGGER, PETER  =VII= 165

  ROUSSEAU, JEAN JACQUES  =VII= 176;  =X= 190 (Confessions);  XIV 337

  Russia Under Peter the Great  XII 259

  Ruy Blas  XVII 134


  SAINT PIERRE, BERNARDIN DE  =VII= 192;  XIX 241

  Saints' Everlasting Rest, The  XIII 37

  Salathiel, or Tarry Thou Till I Come  II 324

  SALLUST, CAIUS CRISPUS  =XI= 168

  Samson Agonistes  XVII 349

  Samuel Brohl and Company  II 235

  SAND, GEORGE  =VII= 205 _seq._

  Sandford and Merton  III 14

  Sartor Resartus  XX 61

  Satires of Juvenal  XVII 207

  ---- of Horace  XVI 91

  ----: see also ERASMUS, GOLDSMITH, etc.

  Savonarola, Life of Girolamo  X 312

  Scarlet Letter, The  V 50

  SCHILLER, FRIEDRICH VON  =XVIII= 129;
    "Life of"  =IX= 111

  SCHLIEMANN, HEINRICH  =XI= 132

  School for Scandal, The  XVIII 226

  ---- for Wives, The  XVIII 14

  SCHOPENHAUER, ARTHUR  =XIV= 99

  SCOTT, MICHAEL  =VII= 229

  SCOTT, SIR WALTER  =VII= 241 _seq._;  VIII 1 _seq._;  XVIII 147 _seq._;
    "Life of"  =X= 70

  Scottish Chiefs, The  VII 28

  SENECA, L. ANNAEUS  =XIV= 109

  Sense and Sensibility  I 109

  Senses of Insects, The  XV 95

  Sentimental Journey through France and Italy  XIX 263

  SÉVIGNÉ, Mme. DE  =X= 216

  Shadow of the Sword, The  II 111

  SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM  =XVIII= 170 _seq._

  SHELLEY, MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT  =VIII= 41

  SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE  =XVIII= 214

  SHERIDAN, RICHARD BRINSLEY  =XVIII= 226

  She Stoops to Conquer  XVII 39

  Shirley  II 71

  SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP  =VIII= 54

  Siegfried  XVIII 327

  Silas Marner  IV 73

  Silence of Dean Maitland, The  V 1

  Simple Story, A  V 174

  Sir Charles Grandison  VII 130

  SMITH, ADAM  =XIV= 350

  Smoke  VIII 272

  SMOLLETT, TOBIAS  =VIII= 64 _seq._

  Social Contract, The  XIV 337

  Sociology, Principles of  XIV 145

  Socrates, Apology or Defence of  XIV 75

  Some Fruits of Solitude  XIII 222

  SOPHOCLES  =XVIII= 237

  Sorrows of Young Werther  IV 253

  SOUTHEY, ROBERT  =X= 226

  Spain: (Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella)  XII 271

  Spectator, The  XX 1

  SPEKE, JOHN HANNING  =XIX= 251

  SPENCER, HERBERT  =XIV= 120 _seq._

  SPINOZA, BENEDICT DE  =XIV= 160

  Spirit of Laws, The  XIV 306

  Spy, The  II 297

  STAAL, Mme. DE  =X= 238

  STAËL, Mme. DE  =VIII= 89;  XX 276

  STANHOPE, EARL  =X= 248

  STANLEY, ARTHUR PENRHYN  =X= 260

  STENDHAL (HENRI BEYLE)  =VIII= 103

  STERNE, LAURENCE  VIII 117;  =XIX= 263

  STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER  =VIII= 130

  Stafford  XVI 165

  STRICKLAND, AGNES  =X= 270

  Struggle of the Nations, The  XI 20

  SUE, EUGÈNE  =VIII= 143

  Surface of the Globe, The  XV 33

  Sweden (History of Charles XII)  XII 280

  SWEDENBORG, EMANUEL  =XIII= 249

  SWIFT, JONATHAN  =VIII= 157;  X 282

  Sybil, or The Two Nations  III 243


  Table Talk by Martin Luther  X 102

  TACITUS, PUBLIUS CORNELIUS  =XI= 156;  XX 286

  TAINE, HIPPOLYTE ADOLPHE  =XII= 177;  XX 298

  Tale of Two Cities  III 213

  Tales from Shakespeare  XVIII 170

  Talisman, The  VIII 25

  TALMUD, THE  =XIII= 259

  Tancred  III 256

  Tartarin of Tarascon  III 1

  Tartuffe  XVIII 29

  Task, The  XVI 290

  TASSO, TORQUATO  =XVIII= 250

  TENNYSON, ALFRED LORD  =XVIII= 261 _seq._

  THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE  =VIII= 169 _seq._

  Theory of the Earth  XV 170

  THOMSON, JAMES  =XVIII= 293

  THOREAU, HENRY DAVID  =XX= 312

  Three Musketeers, The  III 316

  THUCYDIDES  =XI= 95

  Timar's Two Worlds  V 212

  Timbuctoo the Mysterious  XIX 136

  Titan  VII 152

  TOCQUEVILLE, DE  =XII= 117;  XX 324

  Toilers of the Sea, The  V 146

  TOLSTOY, COUNT  =VIII= 205;  =X= 291 _seq._ (Confession, etc.)

  Tom Brown's Schooldays  V 99

  Tom Brown at Oxford  V 110

  ---- Burke of Ours  VI 39

  ---- Cringle's Log  VII 229

  ---- Jones  IV 155

  Tour in Lapland, A  XIX 181

  Tower of London  I 17

  Tragical History of Dr. Faustus, The XVII

  Travels on the Amazon  XIX 285

  ---- to Discover the Source of the Nile  XIX 47

  Travels in France  XIX 327

  ---- in the Interior of Africa  XIX 219

  ---- of Marco Polo  XIX 229

  ---- in Nubia  XIX 57

  Treatise on Electricity and Magnetism, A  XV 227

  ---- on Painting  XX 227

  Tristram Shandy  VIII 117

  TROLLOPE, ANTHONY  =VIII= 221 _seq._

  Troy and Its Remains  XI 32

  TURGENEV, IVAN  =VIII= 245 _seq._

  Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea  VIII 287

  ---- Years After  III 331

  Two Years Ago  V 270

  ---- before the Mast  II 335


  Uncle Silas  VI 1

  ---- Tom's Cabin  VIII 130

  Under Two Flags  VI 326

  Undine  IV 180

  United Netherlands, History of the  XII 234

  ---- States, History of  XII 1;
    see also America

  Urania  IV 168

  Utopia: Nowhereland  XIV 315


  Valkyrie  XVIII 316

  Vanity Fair  VIII 192

  Venice Preserved  XVIII 48

  VERNE, JULES  =VIII= 287

  Vertebrates, Anatomy of  XV 280

  Vestiges of Creation  XV 22

  Vicar of Wakefield, The  IV 175

  View of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages  XI 155

  VILLARI, PASQUALE  =X= 312

  Villette  II 83

  VINCI, LEONARDO DA  =XX= 227

  VIRCHOW, RUDOLF  =XV= 292

  Virginians, The  VIII 181

  VOLTAIRE  =XII= 101;  XII 259;  XII 280;  XIX 275

  Von Ranke: see RANKE, VON

  Voyage of H. M. S. Beagle, The  XIX 124

  ---- to the Isle of France  XIX 241

  Voyage to the Moon, A  I 265

  ---- and Travel  XIX 210

  Voyages Round the World  XIX 100


  WAGNER, WILHELM RICHARD  =XVIII= 305 _seq._

  Walden  XX 312

  WALLACE, ALFRED RUSSELL  =XIX= 285

  WALPOLE, HORACE  =VIII= 303

  WALTON, ISAAK  =XX= 334

  Wanderings in South America  XIX 313

  War, The Future of  XIV 199

  WARBURTON, ELIOT  =XIX= 299

  Warden, The  VIII 221

  Wars of the Jews  XI 55

  Washington, Life of George  X 51

  Water-Babies  V 282

  Waterloo  IV 97

  WATERTON, CHARLES  =XIX= 313

  Way of the World, The  VI 288

  ---- ---- ---- ----, The  XVI 253

  Wealth of Nations, The  XIV 350

  Werther, Sorrows of Young  IV 253

  WESLEY, JOHN  =X= 327

  Westward Ho!  V 294

  Wild North Land, The  XIX 89

  ---- Wales  XIX 13

  Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship  IV 263

  William Tell  XVIII 129

  Woman in White, The  II 262

  WOOLMAN, JOHN  =X= 341

  World as Will and Idea, The  XIV 99

  Wuthering Heights  II 97


  XENOPHON  =XI= 110


  YOUNG, ARTHUR  =XIX= 327


  Zelter, Goethe's Letters to  IX 283

  ZOLA, ÉMILE  =VIII= 318

  Zoological Philosophy  XV 179

  ZOROASTRIANISM  =XIII= 76




Transcriber's Notes:


The Index in this eBook uses Roman numerals to reference all twenty
volumes of this series. Most of those volumes are available at no
charge from Project Gutenberg:

 VOLUME  PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK
     I:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10471
    II:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10643
   III:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10748
    IV:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10921
     V:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10993
    VI:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11180
   VII:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11527
  VIII:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11659
    IX:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12059
     X:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12572
    XI:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12745
   XII:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12845
  XIII:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/13620
   XIV:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25009
    XV:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/25509
   XVI:  not available when this eBook was produced
  XVII:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44640
 XVIII:  not available when this eBook was produced
   XIX:  http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23998
    XX:  this volume

Links to those volumes have been included for use on devices that
support them. The links are to the volumes, not to the specific pages.

Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found for the same author in this book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
quotation marks corrected in simple situations, otherwise unchanged.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained.

Editor's comments at the beginning of each Chapter originally were
printed at the bottom of the page, but have been repositioned here to
appear just below the Chapter titles.

This eBook contains references to other volumes in this series, most of
which are available at no charge from Project Gutenberg:

Page 49: "corollory" was printed that way.

Page 80: "than an hours spent" was printed that way.

Page 148: "perserver" may be a misprint for "preserver".

Page 163: "Circeronianus" was printed that way.

Page 346: "I enjoyed it an turned" probably is a misprint for "and".